Forever War: Drafted
by Laridian
Summary: COMPLETE. The BLU team tries to rebuild itself in the wake of a freak accident that took the lives of half its members. Meanwhile, the new BLU Medic finds himself in a situation he never expected — namely, he never expected to be a doctor at all. Much thanks to our fabulous beta, ProtoNeoRomantic. German translation help provided by Schmogg. The BLU team are OCs.
1. Chapter 1: A Bloody Mess

The train had been almost empty for this trip, and now it was just Gunter and one other man in the car. Gunter had dozed off for part of the way, but there was only so much sleep anyone could take, even if it helped pass the time through the badlands. Gunter had seen plenty of bare southwestern exposure already.

Now they approached a small town – Teufort, according to the schedule. He looked forward to stretching his legs; it had been a long ride from Chicago.

The other passenger, a handsome blond man in his late 20s, had seemed as bored as Gunter on this trip, and both men had kept to themselves. With only the two of them in this car, the train had decreased its amenities (like food) as the passengers had debarked and the line had extended into the wilderness. Gunter had eaten the last of his sausages and bread rolls he'd bought in Chicago. He had other, nonperishable food, but he'd rather hold onto that for emergencies.

He wished his parents understood his decision, but he doubted they would. Still, he'd sent them a letter with the good news about the job.

The train slowed and at last stopped at a railway station that was in good shape. The town looked more prosperous than Gunter had expected. Good. He might come into town for more than mail pickup and dropoff.

The other man also debarked here. Gunter was surprised; the man looked more like a movie star than a manual laborer, such as might be found on a construction site, and surely someone backing the dig or the construction would've chosen better transport than the train. Well, maybe there were other concerns in the area than the dig, remote though it seemed.

Gunter exited the train, collected his suitcases, and looked for the promised contact, someone to get him to his lodgings and get him oriented. A young woman in purple blouse and black skirt, with dark hair and cat-eye glasses, was the only person who appeared to be waiting at the station. She held a folder and clipboard and a ballpoint pen which she clicked twice. While a few people boarded to get out of Teufort, the young woman approached Gunter and his fellow passenger.

"Gentlemen?" she said, approaching them. "I'm Miss Pauling of Builders League United. Which of you is Herr Doktor Schlachterhauser?"

"Just Doctor," Gunter said. "That's me. Doctor Gunter Schlachterhauser."

Miss Pauling made a tick-mark on her form. "Good to meet you, Doctor. Your English is very good. Do you have any other luggage?"

"No." Everything he'd brought with him fit in his rucksack and two suitcases. He let the slight about his English pass. Of course he spoke good English, he was Amideutsch – American-born, not European German.

Miss Pauling turned to the other man. "And you must be Herr Krieg, then?"

"Ja, ich bin er," said the blond man. "Though surely, as we are speaking English, 'Mister' would be more appropriate?" The words could have been a reproof, but there was nothing in his tone or manner to imply anything but a casual suggestion.

"Very good, sir," Miss Pauling said.

"That would make you one of my new teammates then, Dr. Schlachterhauser?" He offered Gunter a disarming smile, and held out a hand to shake. "Erasmus Krieg. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Gunter shook Krieg's hand. _War_. Well, his own last name was _slaughterhouse_. "Pleased to meet you too, Mr. Krieg. What function do you – "

"Excuse me, gentlemen," Miss Pauling interrupted, "We need to get you to the base, and our driver would prefer to be back here before dark. If you have all your baggage? Good. This way, please. I'll give you an orientation as we drive."

An unmarked van that had seen better days was waiting for them, with a dozing black driver in the front seat. A bench lined either long side of the interior space. The driver sat up and stretched when Miss Pauling knocked on the side. Gunter and Krieg loaded themselves and their bags into the back; Miss Pauling boarded behind them. The driver made sure all the doors were closed and started the engine.

Gunter ended up on the same side as Miss Pauling, facing Krieg. "The base – " he began, as the van lurched on its way.

"Yes, BLU HQ." Miss Pauling smiled. "You'll find Builders League United referred to as just 'BLU' and yourselves as Blues. Your opponents at Reliable Excavation and Demolition are similarly called Reds. Don't try to fraternize with them, they're not sociable and will probably try to kill you if you're on-base."

"What?" None of that made sense. "Reds? Like Communists? Why are they at our site?"

Miss Pauling looked askance at him. "Your hiring agent was supposed to explain the situation to you before you signed up." At Gunter's continued blank expression, she added, "BLU and RED are fighting over the property? You're part of a team of mercenaries hired to take over the property? …Oh, God."

The atmosphere was now tense. "I, I signed up to excavate a site before construction begins," Gunter said, trying to hold his voice steady. This wasn't happening. This – no, this was a mistake, some huge mistake. He was both nervous and angry. Surely it wasn't his fault if the recruiter hadn't told him what was really going on! He retrieved his BLU hiring papers from his vest pocket and presented them to Miss Pauling. "See?"

"It says here you've signed on for two years with BLU as a contractor for special services," she read. "Nothing about what kind of services, except you were hired to be the Medic." She looked at Krieg. "Mr. Krieg, I assume you know why you were hired?"

"To be the Pyro."

"At least that's settled." She turned back to Gunter. "Please tell me you at least know something about medicine, because that's what you were hired for."

Gunter swallowed. That was it? Simple as that? 'Contractor for special services' when he could've sworn, no, he _knew_ that he hadn't been signed up as any kind of medical personnel. "I'm an archaeologist."

Miss Pauling put her hand to her face and sighed.

By the time the van reached the base on the long, dusty dirt road, Gunter had been filled in on the situation (a private war over private land) and his duties (keep his team alive on the battlefield), and he wasn't happy about it. He also wanted to be released from his contract.

"That isn't my decision," Miss Pauling said as the van stopped. The driver kept the engine running as Krieg disembarked with his luggage.

Gunter wasn't going to get out. He had to get back to town and the train and get out of here, or at least get to a phone. "But I didn't sign up for any war! I'm not a mercenary, and – " his trump card here – "I don't know medicine!"

"Neither did some of your predecessors," Miss Pauling said.

A group of blue-clad men had come out of the blue and steel buildings to inspect the newcomers.

"Soldier!" Miss Pauling called. "Here they are. Come get this one."

A stocky, hard-faced man in military haircut and bearing stomped up. "Medic and Pyro, huh? It's about time. What's the matter, are you shy?" he bellowed at Gunter. "Which one is he?"

"Medic," Miss Pauling nodded at Gunter.

"Well, golubka, get out here!" The soldier pulled on Gunter's arm and hauled him bodily out of the van. Gunter wasn't expecting a physical assault, wasn't prepared, and realized this man could probably beat him to a pulp in a fight. Archaeology might keep you lean but it didn't make you a fighter.

His suitcases were thrown out after him, and Miss Pauling slammed the back doors shut. The van revved suddenly and roared back down the dirt trail.

Gunter looked at the receding van with doom knelling in his heart. He was trapped here, in a war zone, and he was supposed to be a doctor?

"What's the matter, golubka?" the soldier barked, grinning. "Cold feet?"

That word had to mean something derogatory, but Gunter didn't know what – yet. "I can't be a medic, I'm not a medical doctor!"

"You're not a doctor?" The soldier's grin vanished, and his voice was cold.

"I'm a doctor of archaeology," Gunter said, clearly and patiently, despite his shock. He had to get this out in the open now, before it was too late. He reined in the impulse to scream at them all and bolt back into the van. He was a professional and he could get through this with reason. He hoped. "Not medicine."

There was silence while all eyes watched. Suddenly the soldier laughed. "Hell, you're still a doctor! You've gotta be a smart guy, right? Able to figure things out?" He put a hand on Gunter's shoulder in a friendly way. "Because if you don't," he said, still grinning like a wolf, "a lot of good men will get killed, and it'll be all your fault."

"You can't – " Gunter began. They couldn't saddle him with this!

"You!" The soldier looked at Krieg. "Any confusion over your job, Pyro?"

Krieg shook his head. "Nein. Just show me my room and equipment, please. Will we have time to… practice? Before the next battle?"

"Yeah, two days. We have to get you pigeons ubered and trained. Get your bags, ladies."

Gunter still felt anger over the situation – trapped in the middle of nowhere, miles from town, and now what? He'd be forced to fight in this war if he couldn't get out of it.

"Is there a car or truck for me to get back to town?" he asked.

"Not until a shuttle weekend," Vlad said, eyeing him. "Can't wait to sample the delights of Teufort?"

"I don't belong here," Gunter snapped. "I didn't sign up to be a medic, or in charge of keeping people alive. That's not what I signed up for and if – "

"If what? You want to walk back to town? There isn't another way, _Doctor._ We're all stuck here, just like you." Vlad stood in front of Gunter, hands on hips. "If you want off base, you'll have to wait with the rest of us. If you want _out_, I'm not going to help you, because I need a Medic and I need one yesterday, and if you're at all competent, that's what you're going to be. Do you understand me?"

Gunter glowered at the Soldier. Oh, he understood all right. As soon as he could get a lawyer on the phone, there'd be hell to pay. But for right now, he needed to locate a phone on this base and figure out what he was doing for the night. It was already late afternoon.

Hefting his bags, he looked to the near-distant reddish-wood buildings. This area was all metal and blue; that was all wood and red. The two groups had physically distinctive bases. There was a glint of light in a tower – metal or glass reflecting the sun. The soldier noticed his gaze.

"That's their sniper, checking on us," he said. "They've been waiting for you, too. Can't have a war when a team's short. Bastards won't mind their own business." He aimed his middle finger at the sniper's roost. A moment later the finger exploded in a bloody mess as a gunshot echoed across the valley.

Gunter stared in horror as most of the Blues laughed, and the soldier cursed a string of colorful multilingual obscenities. "Spy!" he finally yelled, clutching his bloody hand. "Go piss in his coffee tonight! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU, MUNDY!" he bellowed toward the Red base.

Gunter threw up.

Soldier's hand required immediate medical attention, so after Gunter cleaned his mouth, Soldier made him come to the infirmary with Krieg – Pyro – in tow. It turned out Soldier was the man's name, or codename… like Gunter was now Medic and Krieg was Pyro.

"Was a good shot," Gunter heard one of the Blues say as he followed Soldier. English? Irish?

The infirmary was large and clean, with an operating table and strange equipment, file cabinets, and a desk and typewriter. A combination mini-clinic and office, Gunter realized.

"Medic, this is where you'll work when you're not on the field," Soldier said. "You don't sleep here, you'll get the room next to the showers, since you're a sissy-boy with a tender tummy." Gunter bridled but didn't get a chance to respond, as Soldier pointed at a bazooka-looking item. "That's your medigun. The portable one. That one," he pointed to a device mounted from the ceiling, on moving bars and cables, like a crazy oversized dentist's drill. "That one's for accidents off duty, like my finger."

Nobody spoke for a moment.

"Well?" Soldier snapped. "I'm bleeding here, golubka!"

"I don't know how to use this," Gunter said, aware that the other Blues were hanging around the doorway. He was angry now, still nauseated, but pissed off. This was what he'd been tricked into? Random acts of mutilation and bloody violence? No. He didn't want any part of this "war."

Yet as he looked at the device, he realized that like a drill, this had only one usable end. There were switches and a faint hum. He put a hand on it; he could feel the thrum of electrical power. It was already on.

The others watched him intently, some might say resentfully, but he took little notice. Part of his job was determining an item's purpose, often with few clues to go on. He pulled the medigun down to eye level and studied it. The switches were unmarked except for raised dots on one surface.

Gunter pulled Solder's mangled hand in front of the device and tried one switch: nothing. He tried another, and a blue light wavered out like steam. Before his eyes, the finger re-formed and healed. Within seconds it was as though it had never been blasted apart, except that there was still blood on the sleeve and drops on the floor. That was impossible. Gunter was too shocked to speak.

"See? You're a Medic!" Soldier enthused. "You'll be fine." With that, he gave a perfunctory introduction to the rest of the team.

Soldier's own name was Vlad Janos, "Though you can call me Sir or Soldier, and if you call me anything else I'll cold-cock your sorry ass." He seemed to be the leader of the team.

Erasmus Krieg, the Pyro, Gunter had already met. He knew pyro- meant fire; what position could Krieg be in this group?

The Scout, Sasha Emsky, was a skinny kid with an East Coast accent, Boston from the sound of it. Youngest of the team but with more than enough attitude for his size.

Sniper – wasn't the sniper on the other side? no, that's right, there was one of each on each team – was introduced as Finn. "Doesn't speak English, helluva thing, trying to get him to understand what he's supposed to be doing." Finn was the tallest, lean and lanky and bore an expression that was best described as 'polite.'

Demoman, or Demo, was an East Indian young man with a dark brown Beatle moptop and a wide, easy grin. The Irish lilt as he introduced himself as Liam was disconcerting.

The Engineer was Lonnie Workitt. Gunter recognized Lonnie's type: hard, taciturn men of the earth. These men knew more about local history and conditions than most people gave them credit for. He'd have to treat Lonnie with respect from the beginning. Lonnie, for his part, grunted, refused to uncross his arms, and returned to the back of the pack as soon as he could.

"Spy isn't here, but you'll meet the sneaky bastard soon," Soldier said. "And Heavy's still in his room, probably. We'll leave him alone for now. Didn't get your name, Doc."

"I didn't give it." Gunter heard pigeons nearby coming to roost. "Dr. Gunter Schlachterhauser."

"Hell of a mouthful," Soldier said. "As far as I'm concerned you're Medic or Doc from here on. Okay, pigeons, get outta here," he bawled at the Blues. "Gotta get these two to quarters. Liam, get dinner ready. See, ladies," Vlad put one big hand on Gunter and Krieg's shoulders, "We're just a big happy family here. Yes we are. Everyone's got duties, we all share in the work, and it makes life easier. It's a good thing for everyone to know what to do, and to do it." He squeezed hard on Gunter's shoulder; Gunter wondered if Krieg got the same treatment.

Vlad stopped them at a corridor of doors. "This is the barracks. Each of you gets a room." Wooden plaques with blue and yellow symbols hung on the doors. "Medic, you've got the cross; Pyro, the fire." The Soldier took two plaques from his pocket and hung them on different doors. Gunter noticed his was at the end, next to the labeled showers, as promised. None of the rooms looked immune to noise from the neighbors, and this one would be worse, but it didn't matter. He was getting out of here as soon as he could.

"Get settled, mess is in 30," Vlad said. "Follow this hall back the way we came and look for the signs. You can't miss it."

Gunter entered his room, more to get away from the situation than anything. There was a key in the lock, which he pocketed. He felt strained to the breaking point. He set the bags on the floor and flopped on the bed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. This was insane. There was no way a machine could make a finger whole again. No way he was in a place where people could be shot at any moment. The next time he faced the Soldier he'd give him a slug in the mouth if he kept up with the names.


	2. Chapter 2: Lost Souls

"The new medic's a pussy," Red Sniper said to his team over supper. "Puked his guts out when I shot their solly's finger off."

They laughed. It was good to remind their opponents that Red was always watching, always ready to attack.

"Mundy, you wanna make a new pot o' coffee?" Demo asked. "We got us a couple days off still, even with the new meat over there."

"Yeh, sure, mate. …Who moved the coffee can? Why you wankers can't leave it alone – "

Gunter woke. He'd dozed off on a dig… no, it wasn't a dig. But the brief nap had helped, and food would likely help too, because he had an idea.

He sighed and sat up, and looked around the room. It was small, much like his college dorm room. A steel bed frame with a mattress, pillow and blankets, suitable for one; he'd slept on worse. A wardrobe and dresser. A wall-mounted light and another light on the end table, which had an inner shelf for books or other small stuff. A sink and mirror. Nail holes in the pale blue walls, probably from previous occupants. The door had a simple chain lock in addition to the deadbolt and opened inward. He'd been in some shady places, but this had to beat all. And there was some kind of a spy about?

The window wasn't painted or nailed shut, so he opened it and looked out at the sunset. This place could be pretty, maybe, if you liked that sort of thing. He left the window open to air out the room.

The dresser was empty. The wardrobe held quite a few identical outfits; uniforms, he guessed. A powder-blue coat, black pants, white shirts. The coats looked like a hybrid of overcoat and lab smock. Two pairs of boots that he hoped fit. He remembered now some questions about sizes, which had been explained as necessary for special protective clothing; but it was really for these. His recruiter had been on the dodge, Gunter thought sourly.

If that machine really worked that well, his mind said, why wasn't it in every hospital and clinic? Maybe the whole thing was an elaborate setup.

He checked his watch. Thirty minutes had passed. Time for dinner, he thought. What was Indian food like? Rice?

The kitchen and mess hall were one room, with a trestle table in the middle and a gas stove, sink, refrigerator, and some cabinets.

Vlad waited at the head of the table, at the opposite end from the kitchen. Liam cooked exactly two types of meals: hearty Irish breakfasts; and volcanic mixes of vegetables, whatever meat was on hand, and rice for supper. It had taken some getting used to, but Lonnie ate anything and the Mexicans had loved Liam's suppers.

Thinking of that reminded Vlad of David Lamb's death, and he sobered up. Damn, he wished David hadn't died. Dr. Lamb had been a good Medic. He'd come in a little after Martin. The new Heavy wanted to bring his brother in, and the current Medic was ready to move on. Now Samson was alone. It would've been bad enough losing Lamb, but to lose the Sniper and Scout with them… and then the Pyro had gone completely batshit and had to be carted off. What was it about teams here? Seemed like there was always a crazy one.

At least the new Pyro seemed normal so far. Vlad hadn't had a chance to check him out yet, what with this Medic problem. The Administrator would take care of whatever idiot recruited this one, but Vlad had never dealt with a merc who didn't want to fight. Pauling sure hadn't stuck around to deal with it, so it was his problem.

The mercs began gathering in the mess hall. They were all still a little subdued from Lamb's death, at least, the old hands were. How was Vlad going to get this team back in shape? He needed money. He needed allies. He needed –

Liam brought a big bowl of superhot peppery stuff and a plate piled with flatbread. Vlad was interested to see if Sasha and Finn would be able to get past a bite of supper tonight. They hadn't managed it yet in the two days they'd been here.

The Blues talked a bit as they drifted in, got something to drink and took their places. Martin came in and took his accustomed place. Then the new medic, Whatsisname. Everyone quieted down when he came in.

"Glad you could join us, golubka," Vlad said. It smelled like Liam's food was really spicy tonight. Sasha snickered at the name. The Medic looked ready to kill. Good, maybe he had some balls after all.

"Entschuldigung, bitte," the new Pyro said. "Excuse me, pliss. This, golubka. What does it mean, exactly?"

"It means, like, dove," Sasha said before Vlad could answer. "Except, like, you'd say it to a girl. Or a nancy-boy."

Everyone waited for a fight to break out. It had to break out after an insult like that.

"So," Krieg said, before the Medic could do something very wrong, "The country whose language that is, you need a separate word just for those people? I see. Very interesting." He lit a cigarette, studying the flame afterward.

Everyone looked to Vlad and the new Medic. Vlad studied the new Pyro. This was an odd duck, but at least he didn't seem crazy like the last one. Vlad laughed. "Leave it to you to point out something about the damn Russkies. You're all right, Krieg."

"Hey!" Sasha yelled, suddenly aware of the insult now dealt to him.

"Deal with it, Sashka," Vlad said. He glanced at the Medic, who was doing a good job of barely containing his rage. "C'mon, Doc. Eat. If your tender tummy can handle it."

"Bread and vegetable stew? Is that all?" Gunter snarled. "You want me to stick around and be your Medic, you've got a damn funny way of showing it, Arschloch." He still hadn't seated himself.

"Fine," Vlad said, leaning forward. "Eat a double bowl of this and keep it down and I'll stop calling you 'little dove'." He gave Liam the barest glance, but Liam caught it and knew. It was hazing, all the new guys got it, and besides, this guy was trying to replace Dr. Lamb.

"Dish it up," Gunter said.

Liam ladled a good portion of hot peppers into Medic's bowl and tossed him a flatbread. Everyone else sat very casually, waiting to see the new guy holler with his mouth on fire.

Gunter dug in. It was spicier than he'd ever had, but the bread helped, and though his sinuses opened up shortly after starting, he finished off the first bowl and handed it to Liam, eyes watering.

"Well?" he asked the rest, all watching him. "Nobody else is going to eat? It's good stuff," he said to Demo, who "came to" and began filling bowls.

Martin relaxed a bit. This new Medic was going to be all right, then. He'd been watching when the man refused to exit the van and loudly proclaimed himself to be anything but a physician, and that had been worrisome. Mind you, there were good points to that sort of inexperience and reluctance – the new doctor probably wouldn't insist on regular physical exams, which no one liked doing – but it was a relief that the man looked like having enough nerve to do his job. They'd already lost enough time seeking out replacements.

Even with Medic getting the hottest bits, the food was still fiery. Vlad and the others laughed as Finn and Sasha struggled, while Gunter finished his second bowl (feeling very stuffed), eyes and nose watering and cheeks flushed red, but without coughing or other ill effects.

"Well, Doc, you did it, and I'm a man of my word," Vlad said. The Medic looked grimly satisfied by that. Good, that was over with. Vlad needed to get the team back into battle, pronto. Every day they didn't fight, they didn't get paid. It had already been over a week. The new Sniper and Scout had had a couple of days to settle in now; tomorrow they could get into practice with Liam and Lonnie. Now he just had to get the Pyro and Medic on track, and that would take at least a day, maybe two. And on that thought…

"Liam, put together something and I'll see if I can get Samson to eat." Vlad looked at the two new guys. "Don't suppose either of you boys speaks Spanish?"

Krieg shook his head, but Medic – clearly never having heard the good advice "don't volunteer" – hesitated, then admitted, "I know some Spanish."

"Come with me, then. It's time you met our Heavy."

As Vlad collected the bowl of food and a flatbread, he leaned in close to Martin. "Come with," he said. "I need to talk to you."

Martin gave a fractional nod, finishing his remaining bite of flatbread and leaving the empty bowl. "Bonne soirée," he said politely to the men remaining at the table, and followed the Soldier and their new Medic out of the room.

Vlad summarized the Heavy's recent struggles as he, the Medic and Martin walked to the barracks. "His name's Samson Lamb. His brother is – was – our previous Medic. They got caught in a flash flood and Dr. Lamb and our Scout and Sniper died. Samson lived, but we can't get him to come out of his room."

They'd reached the door with a plaque of a fist. (Gunter wondered if the Heavy was a brawler.) Vlad gestured with his head and Gunter knocked on the door. There was no response.

"Samson?" Vlad called. After a continued lack of response, he told Gunter to take the food in. "Talk to him."

"But I'm – "

"Yeah, yeah. But you're new and you speak his language. The Lambs're Mexican Indians."

Gunter looked about to argue, but Vlad sent him into the room. Then he pulled the door to, and gestured for Martin to come with him several feet down the hallway.

"Martin," he said quietly, when he was sure they wouldn't be overheard. "I need you to be my second-in-command. Just for a while. You keep your head and I can trust you." Dr. Lamb had been Vlad's previous second. "Here's the deal. Lonnie and Liam can keep the new Sniper and Scout busy on drills tomorrow. We have to get the new Pyro and Medic up to speed. I'll take the Pyro, and I want you to work with Medic." Vlad shook his head. "He's got to _want_ to work with us. Pauling dumped him here, we won't get another Medic anytime soon. It's him or nothing. I'd rather not rely on dispensers alone."

Vlad paused to pull a pack of smokes from his coat pocket, offering one to Martin before lighting up. "We could even fight without Samson if we had to, but I want that Medic out on the field within two days. Can you do that for me, Martin?"

Martin raised an eyebrow, but did not reply until he puffed out a smoke ring to hover gently upward.

"Yes," he said at last, watching the ring slowly dissipating in the dim light near the ceiling. "_Oui_, I think this can be done. Already he tries to prove himself to you. So, you continue to be the bad cop, and I can be the… What is it you called me? 'Sneaky bastard' cop." Martin did not smile, but without the mask of the Spy, it would be difficult to miss the amusement in his smirk. "It will be a worthy challenge, to both persuade and train."

Vlad smiled grimly back. "Whatever gets the job done. Get me that Medic on the field and I'll owe you. Now – " He stopped as the new Medic returned to the hall and looked for them. "What is it, Medic?"

"It's Dr. Schlachterhauser," Medic said, with admirable German gutturals. "Samson needs help, help that I can't give."

Well, it was worth a shot, Vlad thought. "How bad is it?"

"His soul is lost," Doc said.

Vlad stared at him. What did that mean? Samson was dead?

"I have some knowledge of Southwest Indian beliefs," the Medic said. "Samson's soul is lost, out of his body. When he and his brother were in the flood, and his brother died, his soul left to go to the next world. But Samson was left behind. His soul has left his body to look for his brother's soul. Without his soul, his body won't respond, and eventually his body will die."

Vlad didn't know what to make of any of that. "You learned all that just by talking to him?"

"Sort of," the Medic shrugged. "I knew of a similar case when I was at Canyon de Chelly. That was a grieving mother. They don't snap out of it themselves, they need a shaman to go into the spirit world and find their soul, then help guide it home to their body."

"I don't suppose you can do that," Vlad said.

Doc shook his head. "No. I wasn't part of the ceremony, either, being a white man. Besides, that's anthropology, not archaeology. Samson needs a shaman."

Vlad took a sharp draw on his cigarette. "A shaman. Huh." He shook himself. "All right, let me get Pauling on the horn and see if she can get us one. Thanks, Doc." He looked meaningfully at Martin before heading to his office. If Medic was right, maybe they could get Samson back in the fight at the same time as the new guys.

"You're welcome." Gunter watched the soldier leave. There was a moment of the Spy coolly studying him and exhaling smoke. "So," Gunter said, "can you give me a tour of the base?"

"Certainly, Docteur Abattoir." The Spy's lips curved slyly, inviting Gunter to share the joke. "You have seen the mess hall of course, and your office I believe. Perhaps the most important thing now is to ensure you know where not to go, for you own safety."

He snuffed his cigarette and gestured for Gunter to precede him down the hall. Normally he wouldn't have spoken further: it was safest for most teammates not to feel too close to him, after all, so he didn't seek to make many friends. Now, however, they needed this man, their new Medic, to feel himself truly a member of the team.

"Thank you, Docteur, for helping our Heavy, even if it is not your specialty. We have, I think, all been at something of a loss to help him."

"I'm glad I could help," Gunter said. "Of course, I'm sure when you get a real medic in, he'll be able to do much more. I hope your Miss Pauling can find someone soon."

"Monsieur, I do not believe a 'real' Medic could have done more. It is not a part of a Medic's duty to treat the mind." Though Martin suspected Dr. Lamb had done so in some way, keeping their previous Pyro stable longer than would otherwise have been possible. It would explain why the man had gone round the bend so suddenly after the doctor's death. "But how did it come to be, that you signed a contract to do this job you find odious?"

Gunter grimaced. "I was misled," he said sourly. "I thought I was hired to perform a dig on a construction site. An archaeological dig, on ancient Indian works. Instead I got sent up the river and your boss was sold a bill of goods." He tried to pace himself so he was walking alongside Martin. "I'm an archaeologist by trade and training, and I applied, but wasn't told I'd be doing surgery and – are they on the level, about a war over this place? Eight hours a day, five days a week? I still don't want to get shot and killed, even on banker's hours."

"On the level?" Martin answered seriously. "If you must ask that question, you were misled indeed. Yes, it's true: you are here to fight in a war. That said, you will not die permanently; you will remain dead for a few seconds, a minute or two at most. The death itself might hurt – some means of death are more unpleasant than others – but then you will respawn, as hale and hearty as you were in the morning."

"You're kidding me." Gunter stared at Martin. "You're not kidding me. "This is – that's insane. That's _impossible._ If that were real, why isn't it everywhere? Why do people still die?"

"I do not know," Martin said, still serious. "There must be a reason. Perhaps this is experimental; perhaps it is too expensive to maintain anywhere else. Our employers have been described as… eccentric. Wealthy and eccentric, to pay for this war and all our equipment, including miraculous machines of healing."

"That's – " Gunter hesitated, then: "That's cowshit." And yet, he'd seen the quick-fix medigun make a man's hand whole again. Maybe Respawn was just a bigger version, able to put entire bodies back together. He shook his head. It was too hard to believe.

That led to the respawn room, and from there the supply room, and the gates to the battlefield, and outside on the battlefield showing how Red and Blue were roughly laid out, and be careful about going onto the Red side off-hours because they wouldn't take it kindly.

Then the laundry, the rec room, and the motor pool. The laundry consisted of two each washers and dryers. Gunter wondered how often they were expected to wash their uniforms; there was no official rotation for laundry, but that meant it could be anything goes, he gathered. The rec room had a bookcase, some couches and an easy chair that had seen much better days, and a TV. Gunter wondered if they could even get a signal, this far out from civilization.

"On some nights, yes," Martin said. "When the weather is good."

The motor pool only had one vehicle, an ancient-looking truck that must be at least twenty years old – no, older, Gunter decided, as he peered in at the controls. He knew how to drive a stick shift, of course, but this had extra levers and things he didn't recognize. "Wow."

"Indeed," Martin said, leaning languidly against a column. "Lonnie is the only one who can drive it. We used to have the Medic's van, but it was ruined in the flood that took our teammates' lives."

Gunter turned to look at Martin. "So that was really a freak accident for you. Because otherwise, nobody would die on the battlefield." If the Respawn really worked as described. "None of you would ever die."

"We can die," Martin said with a Gallic one-shoulder shrug. He didn't wear the balaclava when he wasn't on duty, but even so his hair was an unruly mess of curls. "But not on the base. If we leave the base, we can die permanently. It has happened, now and again. But most men, when they leave, do not die. They retire, they move on, they cannot take the battle any longer."

Gunter nodded. "Will there be another Medic van?"

Another shrug. "In time, I expect so."

Overall, Gunter thought he had a good mental map of the Blue side of the base. "Now what?"

"Now, you should know that tomorrow, your training begins," Martin said. "I will meet with you in the morning, and we will go over your equipment and what to expect."

"I see. Thank you, Martin." Gunter made his goodnights and went back to his room. He brushed teeth, noted people moving around outside his room, and set his alarm clock, placing it under his pillow. He made sure everything was in place, and turned in early.

At two AM, the alarm went off under his pillow, waking him but, he hoped, not anyone else. He'd slept in his clothes to save time, and not unpacked any of his things. He was going to get out of here.

Lonnie's truck wasn't an option – there was no way he could drive it. But if he started now, he could get to town by morning, he hoped, and get out of here.

Gunter put socks over his shoes to muffle the sound, at least until he got to the road. Backpack on and luggage in hand, he crept into the hall, lit by faint lights from outside, and made his way soundlessly to the base exit, the one he'd arrived through yesterday, brought by that damnable Miss Pauling.

He got to the gate, and stopped to listen and look. Nobody was there; it was closed but, he could tell by a feel, not locked. Maybe they didn't worry about anyone breaking into this place.

Vlad also listened and looked. He'd suspected the new Medic might try something like this. They hadn't had anyone try to bolt in the first day, at least as far as Vlad could remember. But this guy was different.

Now he was standing at the gate, and Vlad waited.

The half-moon shone down on the landscape. It would be enough for the Medic to see the road, since there weren't any clouds. Coyotes howled. It was quite a pleasant night. A good night for a walk. Clear weather, good visibility.

Both men waited for several long minutes, listening to the slight breeze and the animal noises. The Medic was absolutely still as if trying not to be noticed. Not that he'd done a good job, since he couldn't cloak himself and wasn't hiding all that well.

At last, the man moved, but he didn't try to open the gate. He acted angry with himself, if Vlad was reading the body language and head-shaking correctly. The medic turned and walked back to the barracks. Vlad was curious; the man's shoulders were slumped as if in defeat. What could that mean?

Well, he realized, it meant that at least for now, they didn't have a runaway merc on their hands. He waited until he saw the Medic enter the barracks, then put the safety back on his handgun.

Medic had had a change of heart, Vlad guessed. He'd have to leave a note for Martin as to what had happened – slipping it under the Spy's door – but now he, too, could get some sleep, and in the morning the new pigeons could be trained.


	3. Chapter 3: This May Sting a Bit

Morning came too soon for Gunter. He groaned and wanted to ignore the sounds of his new neighbors, which was hard enough to do, but then Vlad pounded on the door and yelled for Medic to get his ass up for breakfast.

Liam was cooking again, and Gunter expected more Indian food. To his surprise, the table was set with thick oatmeal, butter, cream, brown sugar, strong black coffee, tea with an interesting aroma, bacon, fried eggs, fried sausages, even the sliced tomatoes were fried, and toasted brown bread. The whole room smelled wonderful. Gunter's stomach reminded him that good food often improved one's mood, and it wanted good food _right now_.

All those present set to eating as if their lives depended on it. Gunter couldn't blame them, it tasted as good as it smelled. Liam was a damn good cook. He ate until he was full, but couldn't hold a candle to the rest of them.

"Okay, ladies," Vlad said good-naturedly, when the feeding frenzy had slowed down. "Here's the plan for today. I'll work with you, Pyro, and get you ready and used to your gear. Lonnie and Liam will work with Sniper and Scout, more drills. Martin'll get Medic caught up. We have to get this team ready for battle as fast as possible."

"What about Samson?" Liam asked.

"Pauling's sending someone to look at him," Vlad said. "Our new Medic has some ideas which we hope will work."

Everyone looked at Gunter, who didn't know whether to be proud or modest. He avoided the question and drained his mug of coffee.

With that out of the way, Vlad told Krieg to suit up and meet him at the training range. Martin said to Gunter, "You should do the same, but we will meet in the infirmary. I do not think training with a new Pyro would be conducive to your concentration."

Gunter had to admit that sounded like a good idea, avoiding the Pyro. He still didn't know what the man would do, but fire had to be involved somehow.

Back in his room, he changed from the clothes he'd slept in (nobody had said anything, he realized) to the pants and boots, picked out one of the identical shirts, and decided against a tie. Why did he need a tie if he was fighting in a war? Then the lab coat over top. This would be hell to run around in during a Southwestern summer. He tucked the pants into the boots out of habit; it was a way to avoid ruining the cuffs.

Martin was waiting in the infirmary for him. "Now you look like a Medic," the Frenchman said.

Gunter opened his mouth to point out again _I'm not a Medic_ when Martin held up a finger to forestall him. "You say you are not a Medic, and that you would prefer not to be here. You are a most peculiar man, Dr. Schlachterhauser." He tilted his head to one side. "There is very little that happens here that I do not know.

Gunter held still. "What do you mean by that?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

Martin regarded him with almost-black eyes that gave nothing away. "Come now, Docteur. You have only been introduced to me as Martin, but surely you knew? I am the Spy," he said. "In the same way that you are not yet the Medic, I am the Spy. It is my job to be aware of everything that occurs. My _raison d'être_, to be where I am not expected to be, to know that which I am expected not to know. One way or another, I keep track of what happens here."

His lips curved upward, not exactly smiling, but certainly not sneering as he took in Gunter's expression. "Fortunately for you, Doctor Schlachterhauser, I am _your_ Spy, who will never betray you – or will be, once you are become part of the team. When that happens is up to you."

Gunter held still. What did Martin know? Almost certainly that Gunter had tried to leave during the night. But not why he'd failed to go through with it. He couldn't know that. This certainly couldn't be an attempt at blackmail. Could it?

The problem was that Gunter had very little to support his leaving at this time. (That wasn't the reason he'd turned back. This was the _justification_ for turning back. He wasn't about to tell the real reason.) He had signed a contract that was probably very legally binding. He couldn't contest it unless he hired a lawyer. Lawyers required money. Teufort must have lawyers, but he didn't know any yet, and the base didn't have a phone book (he'd looked) – just a phone. They were actually fairly isolated out here.

So if he wanted a lawyer to review his case, he had to find one and hire him, and that assumed he could get to town. And Gunter had taken this job because he needed the money.

Thinking about his situation in the cold light of morning had led him to that unpleasant conclusion: he had to stay here, and work, until he could afford legal assistance to break his contract. The only other way was trying to get out on his own… and now, he realized, if he'd snuck out during the night, his mysterious employer would probably take action against _him_ for breach of contract, and that would be a black mark on his name to follow whatever career he took after this.

And he needed the money.

He'd turned away from the Spy to walk to the desk as he thought. Of course, as soon as they saw he couldn't do medicine, they'd probably gladly void his contract –

He could hear pigeons again, and looked up to see several of them eyeing him at a clerestory window in the wall behind the desk. It was startling. They seemed to be paying attention to him. Gunter turned to look inquiringly at Martin.

"Medics have pigeons," Martin said. "As long as I have been here. Red and Blue each have their own. Their doves are white. These – "

"I know them," Gunter said, turning back to look at the birds. "I mean, I've seen this species before." It was a small native wild dove, much prettier, he thought, than the tough ugly city pigeons. "Are they tame?"

"I do not know. Dr. Lamb fed them, and they did not seem afraid of him."

"So they're waiting for food? They must be hungry, waiting when he's no longer here."

Gunter was glad Martin didn't mock him or even smile, but seemed to take this seriously. The Spy helped him look for the bag of seed, and then how to open the window. The birds immediately flew in.

"But this is an infirmary!" Gunter said, aghast. "Get out! Shoo!" He waved his hands at them, but the doves took no notice. Some were trying to perch on his shoulders – he'd never seen a bird do that. He didn't know what to do, so he stood rock-still. It must be the uniform, he thought. Of course. They must recognize the uniform.

Martin came to his rescue, this time smiling a little, and he filled the shallow metal pan with seed and set it on a nearby counter. The birds flocked to it, and Gunter felt safe to breathe again.

"Now then, Docteur," Martin said. "To business?"

Gunter realized he'd never given the man a real answer about taking the job. He took a deep breath. "All right. I'll be your Medic. But I don't think anyone will be happy with my medical skills."

The doves left after feeding, so it was just the two men in the infirmary.

Being Medic turned out to need a very different set of skill requirements than Gunter had expected. He had three pieces of equipment, two of which were for killing people, and the third was the medigun. It was large, ungainly, weighed ten pounds, and required a forty-pound backpack which powered it. How was he supposed to carry all three, much less use them?

Martin let him familiarize himself with the equipment before practicing with the medigun. The medigun and backpack were heavy but bearable, and he needed both hands to carry the former. Gunter doubted he'd ever get the hang of the bonesaw or syringe gun, but the medigun was easy enough to use. Just aim and shoot.

Gunter realized now that this was why they hadn't been too concerned with his lack of medical knowledge: you didn't really need it with the medigun. Which also meant that his recruiter had probably not gotten in as much trouble as Gunter had thought. The team got a warm body who happened to have a doctorate, but it could be anyone in this coat. He said this to Martin.

The Spy appeared to consider the question seriously. "I do not think that coat would fit me, Docteur. A little large in the shoulders, do you not think?"

He waited a beat, then continued before Gunter could react to the joke. "Truly, no. Not just any body will do. The Heavy, for instance; you have seen our Heavy. You do not think a man such as you or I could perform his role? Just as no one else on this team could perform mine. But it is not only size that matters! You are not yet trained, but as an educated man, we know you can learn not only to use the tools of the Medic, but to be the Medic. To think as a Medic. To keep your wits about you. To complete your long education, you must surely have had the dedication to overcome many obstacles, non? So it is on the field of battle. Once you learn your tools, you will see. You will begin to think with them, as well as to use them."

Martin's words made sense, but Gunter still had the feeling almost anyone could do this. He was surprised that he found that concept now discouraging. Before, he'd assumed he was a highly skilled man who was mishired. Now, he felt like an unskilled laborer.

What he said was: "All right. I'll give it a try."

After all, as Martin had guessed, college had presented a lot of challenges too – certainly this would be challenging, but hardly the same as hiding his major from his parents while cramming his education into as few years as possible, while keeping the funding going.

"Let's get started."

The rest of the morning was spent running around Blue base, healing his teammates, and Martin the Spy if Gunter saw him, which wasn't often. The Scout was fast, too hard to keep in the gun's beam, but Gunter could manage with the others. There was a lot of running around the base and getting lost and finding his way; frustrating, but he was also learning his way around this half of the battle area.

By lunchtime he was in a sweat and breathing hard, and all he'd done – ha! _all_ he'd done – was run up and down stairs and through and around buildings, carrying a heavy pack and a gun that required two hands. Gunter was glad to break for lunch, and wolfed down sandwiches and weak beer. He wasn't the only one, either.

The Blues sat together in the open air, though nobody talked much at all. Even Vlad and Krieg joined them. Krieg was a sweaty mess from wearing the gas mask and suit all morning.

Vlad and Martin talked quietly for a while, probably comparing notes, Gunter thought. _How'd yours do? Not bad, and yours?_

"Listen up, ladies," Vlad said when the supply of sandwiches had reached almost zero. "Today you need to get uber'd. It allows you to use Respawn so you won't get killed to death. Medic, you'll be hands-on with this. I've asked Red Medic to come over and supervise, since he's the only one here now who knows how to do it, but you have to pay attention and do some of them yourself."

Gunter frowned. So he did have to perform surgery? But the other Medic must know what to do, and the Medigun would – should – help, if things went wrong.

Red Medic was middle-aged, gray as a rat at the temples, somewhat haughty, very German, and refused to give his actual name, so Gunter didn't either.

They went to the infirmary, the Red Medic explained briefly some of the quirks of the equipment, showed Gunter where to find the Ubercharge devices that had thoughtfully been pre-ordered by someone, and Gunter discovered that the fridge, which he hadn't investigated yet, contained some extra hearts just in case one blew up during surgery.

"It has happened," Red Medic said with a shrug.

Then Red Medic gave Gunter some anesthetic and a warning: "Zhis will still hurt. The shot will simply make you not die from the shock."

Then it was off with everything from the waist up and onto the table.

What happened next – Gunter was convinced this man was a sicko. He seemed a little too happy about Gunter's obvious pain and distress while cracking open the ribcage and forcing the archaeologist to hold open his own chest cavity. Gunter forced himself to concentrate on the process through the pain as best he could. The medigun beam bathed his body in a soft blue light, and kept him alive, he realized, while Red Medic removed his heart and stuck the Uber device on it. Red Medic was talking but Gunter had trouble listening to him. The smell and sight of his own blood made him woozy.

The other Medic held the heart and device fully under the beam for several seconds, then put it back into Gunter's chest. God, that hurt! Gunter bit his lip to keep from screaming, and tasted blood.

Then a full blast from the medigun and everything was fixed back up. No pain, just the memory of it. Lots of blood everywhere, but Gunter was healed, if feeling nauseous.

"Now," Red Medic said, "I will watch you do the next one."

Gunter took his time. He was wobbly on his pins, and had to wash off the blood as best he could before dressing again. Red Medic was visibly irritated at the delay, but kept silent.

The next one was the Scout. Gunter didn't know if he'd been chosen or volunteered, but the boy hopped up onto the operating table without a fuss.

Gunter administered the shot under Red Medic's direction. "Why can't we give more anesthesia? It would help – "

"Dummkopf," Red Medic said, angry. He continued in German: "Es ist nicht notwendig den Schmerz zu vermeiden. Denn sie werden sich erinnern, und sie respektieren und fürchten den Medic, der eine solche Kontrolle über Schmerzen hat. Deswegen."  
>[Because it is not necessary to avoid the pain. Because they will remember, and they will respect and fear the Medic who has such control over pain. That is why.]<p>

That didn't sound like the kind of medical man Gunter wanted in control of his health, or anyone else's. Wasn't one of the medical oaths "do no harm?"

Sasha was watching him. Gunter knew he had to stay confident and not give his teammates a reason to think he was incompetent. (But wait – wasn't he trying to get out of here?) Gunter gave the shot.

"It will still hurt a bit," he apologized.

"I can take it, Doc."

Then the chest-cracking machine – Gunter didn't remember its name – and Red Medic stood nearby and Gunter could swear the man was getting off on the blood and how pale the Scout had turned, and the obvious pain the procedure was causing. Red Medic was watching eagerly, almost greedily, as the bones cracked and blood flowed.

Gunter performed the process as quickly as he could, healed Sasha up, and faced Red Medic. "Get out."

"Was?"  
>[What?]<p>

"Get out of my infirmary," Gunter said, angry. "You're no doctor. I'm more of a doctor than you are. Get out before I have you thrown out." The man had hurt Gunter, deliberately, and made Gunter hurt the Scout just to get his jollies. It made Gunter sick to his stomach.

"You have two teammates left to – "

"I'll take care of them. I know what to do. Go back to your own team and tear _them_ apart." Gunter was shaking with anger now.

Red Medic drew himself up as though Gunter had given great offense. "You are no real Medic," he said. "Sie wollen, dass ich gehe, damit Sie sich übergeben können, richtig?" [You want me to leave so you can vomit, yes?]

"Just get out!" Gunter yelled.

Red Medic did, with the air of someone glad to leave a smelly barn. Gunter leaned back against the table and gripped it tightly. "I'm sorry," he said to Sasha. "I didn't realize. I won't let it happen again." Of course, it couldn't happen again, since Ubercharge was apparently a one-time deal, but Gunter could at least try to not let massive pain happen again.

Gunter sent Sasha on his way after a quick clean-up, and took a minute to steady himself. The minute stretched into several as he sat behind the desk, hunched over, trying to focus. Red Medic was a dangerous man. Red Sniper had shot Vlad's finger off for very little provocation. _Don't visit the Reds, they're antisocial and won't take kindly to it._

Dr. Lamb, Gunter thought, was remembered favorably among the Blues. He must have been a real doctor, one who cared about his patients. Probably Lamb could have shown him how to do this without hurting anyone. Maybe without forcing them to be awake when their chests were forced open. But Lamb was dead and Vlad had had to ask insane Red Medic to come help. That must have galled the proud soldier, having to ask the enemy for assistance.

Then it was up to Gunter, wasn't it, to prevent any more "house calls" by the Red doctor. Whether or not he was medically capable, it would be criminal to allow that butcher over here again to "treat" the Blues.

_Butcher_, he thought with sour humor. _And slaughterhouse_.

He'd better get on with being a Medic, then. He stood, straightened his shoulders, and went to the door.

"Next."

The chest-cracker had to work harder to get through Finn's physique, but the Sniper bore it stoically, fixing his gaze on the ceiling and not looking away no matter what. As far as Gunter could tell, Finn was probably in little or no pain, thanks to extra anesthetic. Gunter breathed easier.

Krieg, for his part, didn't appear affected by the experience one way or another. He barely reacted, but it was different from Finn's focused avoidance.

By the time Krieg had dressed and left, Gunter felt exhausted, but he couldn't hide here in the infirmary, either. He washed up yet again, made himself presentable, and noted with some discouragement that he'd still gotten blood on his uniform. He wanted a drink and fresh air and a trip out of here.


	4. Chapter 4: Plain Language

The new Medic looked haggard, Vlad thought. Probably to be expected; he'd had a shoutout with the Red Medic, then did surgery on his own, and that might have been hard on someone who wasn't a medical doctor.

The Reds were still hanging around and watching. Red Medic looked snooty enough. Vlad hadn't liked asking for help, but there had been no other way. He barely remembered his own Uber device implantation, since he'd been unconscious during it. Vlad felt uneasy about Red Medic being the teacher; but what other choice had there been?

Red Medic sniffed audibly, and said loud enough for all to hear, "So. There is their _Ersatzdoktor_. Trust me, we have nothing to fear from him. In fact, his own team should fear he will get them killed."

There was some muttered amusement on Red side. It wasn't an inventive or good insult, but Vlad was used to ignoring low-grade trash talk. This didn't deserve a response, and the old hands knew it. Instead, Vlad kept an eye on Sasha, who looked ready to get into a verbal scrap. Vlad didn't want a fight with Red off-hours; his team still wasn't used to working together.  
>"My gramma could toss insults better than that!" Sasha yelled. "You're too old to be out here, ya geezer! You – " He would have continued except that Vlad grabbed him around the neck with one hand. It wasn't a strangle-grip, but Sasha squawked in surprise, which amused several of those present, and allowed Vlad to break up the gathering.<p>

Doc was glaring at Red Medic with loathing, but he turned away with the others to return into their base. Vlad fell into step beside him. "Sorry about what happened," he said. "Red Medic was a pain in the ass?"

Gunter nodded, lips pressed together tightly.

Vlad shook his head. "He's a bastard, all right."

"He made me operate on them without proper anesthetic," Doc growled bitterly. They were just walking, and Vlad noticed the rest of the team following at a slight distance. He hadn't given them other instructions, so they were tagalongs – and probably curious.

"He's sick," Doc went on. "A monster. Should be locked up." His hands clenched into fists.

Vlad grunted in agreement. Red Medic had been here a long time. There'd been speculation that he'd been a Nazi. He was a creepy bastard.

"We kill him regularly," he said. "You can take a whack at him yourself."

Doc stopped walking. "I don't, I don't want to be here."

"That's because you're new," Vlad said. "You can do this, Doc. You did surgery, right? Even as messed up as Red Medic is. You got everyone through it. You can keep us alive."

Doc put his hands on his hips and stared off toward the mountains.

"Someone's coming," Sasha said.

Vlad looked in the direction of the road. From here, he could see a distant dust cloud. "Maybe that's your medicine man to help Samson," he said to Gunter. "They'll be another ten, fifteen minutes. Come on over then, we might need you to translate." He looked at the rest of the team. "I'm going to try rousting Samson out of his room. Liam, Lonnie, why don't you come help me."

Krieg followed along with the rest of the new hires. His face was was a pleasant smile, and behind it his thoughts were running faster than the mouth of that Scout, the American child with the Russian name. He was glad to have been awake for the surgery – what marvels of medicine they had here! The mind boggled at what could be done with them. Apparently the Red Medic had done Schlachterhauser's surgery without anesthesia, and so had the Scout's been done before Schlachterhauser threw his opposite number out. A pity.

The boy was still yammering, but that suited Krieg well enough. He scarcely need attend to what the boy said in order to reply appropriately, but every word helped him know better what this Scout was like.

"Those old farts won't be able ta keep up with us!" Sasha was saying. "You see how old some of 'em are? We're gonna run rings around 'em." He demonstrated on the three remaining teammates: Finn, the Medic, and Pyro.

"Lonnie's not young," Krieg pointed out.

"Okay, but he's just one guy, an' Engineers stay by their buildings," Sasha said. He'd picked up much of the lingo and way of life here quickly. "The rest of us gotta keep moving, and they're all geezers."

"Not their Scout."

"Fine! Jeez! What the hell's wrong with you! That's just one guy!" Sasha pulled up short in front of the Medic, who was looking at him. "Hey, Doc."

"You're all right, then," Doc said. Sasha hadn't caught his name, not really, but it had been a busy day.

"Yeah, sure. Takes more'n that to keep me down." Sasha thumped his chest. "C'mon, let's go see this guy an' why we need a medicine man, anyway? Thought you were the doc?"

The Medic was thrown by the change in topic. "It's… that's confidential between doctor and patient," he said.

"You ain't a medical doc, you said it yourself," Sasha teased.

"I'm your Medic and that's good enough," the other replied, smiling a little.

"Are you now?" Krieg asked innocently.

Doc's smile vanished. Sasha had gotten the gist of why Doc was here – he'd been shanghai'd, like. But he seemed to know what he was doing.

(Finn didn't know whether this was normal or not, but that was because he didn't know what the hell anyone was saying.)

"Yeah, he's the Medic all right," Sasha said, full of bravado. "He worked on all of us, right? And you bastards don't know the half of it. I was there when he went off on Red Medic. Red's all getting off on watching the surgery, see, and – "

"Sasha, stop it," Doc said, scandalized. Sasha thought Doc was a bit of an old maid, but he said, "Anyway, Doc here told him off, and I'd rather have our Doc than Red Medic. We're gonna kick ass on those bastards!"

The four returned to the barracks – though Gunter thought it was more like a dorm – where Samson was being led out by Vlad and Liam. The four stopped to let them pass. In daylight, the Heavy looked like a man who'd recently lost a lot of weight, and seemed apathetic as to his surroundings. His eyes were sunken and he was unwashed, his hair uncombed.

"Hope they fix him," Sasha said, after they were alone again. "Or he'll die of grief, and we won't get paid, or we'll have to fight without him. I mean, we can do it, but…"

Gunter asked what a Heavy did, and Sasha gave him the lowdown as he'd learned from Vlad.

The four men then wandered to where the action seemed to be taking place, though they couldn't directly see it, as it was happening in a spare room. Liam guarded the closed door. Gunter guessed this was because there wasn't a medicine lodge, kiva or tepee available; he wasn't sure what the actual requirements were for Indians' spiritual healing, but a spare room was very likely to be "best we can do" in this situation and not ideal. Noises that might have been talking or chants came from inside the room.

Lonnie stood nearby, his expression a mix of fear and fascination, as if he wanted to know what was happening in there, but was afraid to find out. Vlad was absent.

"So what's up?" Sasha asked.

Liam shrugged. "Don't know. Sortin' it out, I suppose. They didn't ask for our Medic." He looked at Gunter, who shrugged.

"I'm not needed for this," Gunter said, "and I wouldn't know how to help anyway. Is Vlad in there?"

Liam shook his head. "E's wi' Miss Pauling in the front o' the building. Y'can't miss 'em," he called after Gunter, who was already striding in the direction Liam had indicated.

Vlad and Miss Pauling stopped talking as Gunter approached. "Excuse me – " he began.

"All settled in now, Doctor?" Miss Pauling asked pleasantly.

"Sort of – but I need to talk to you about – "

"I'm not sure what's left to discuss that Soldier can't handle," she interrupted.

Gunter stared at her for a moment. "But I'm – "

"Signed to a contract and Soldier tells me you're fitting in well," Miss Pauling said firmly. "In fact, that you may have saved your Heavy from being replaced, at a difficult time in his life. That's very humanitarian of you, Doctor. Now then – "

Gunter was tired of being cut off. He took hold of her arm and she glared at him in cold surprise. Vlad was watching the two of them shrewdly. "Miss Pauling, you know I was signed up under false pretenses."

"Even if that's true, your contract would still be completely legal, because you signed it." She emphasized the last few words. "Do you have any proof? You signed a legally binding agreement, and by all appearances you knew what it was when you signed. You must serve out your contract or be taken to court. I checked it myself." She sounded almost sympathetic, as she freed herself from his grasp.

Gunter must have looked as crestfallen as he felt. He couldn't afford to go to court over this, but what else could he do?

"The two years pass quicker than you think," Miss Pauling said. "Your Spy and Soldier have been here more than twice that."

"Four years already? My, how time has flown, Miss Pauling." The Spy in question approached from behind Gunter, where Gunter would have sworn he hadn't been a minute ago, and kissed Miss Pauling's knuckles while murmuring in French. He was wearing the balaclava, too, that Gunter had previously only seen during while they were practicing.

Miss Pauling looked very pleased at the Spy's attention. Gunter wasn't sure he'd ever seen simpering before, but it sure seemed to be happening right now. It irritated him, but he said nothing. (Possibly he was irritated from once again being prevented from leaving this situation by peaceful means.)

The rest of the day, until five o'clock, Gunter worked with his teammates. Vlad had them all doing drills together. The equipment was heavy; by quitting time, Gunter's arms felt ready to fall off, and he knew, mostly, what he was supposed to do with it. It would be a lot of practice before he would be good at it.

On a positive note, all the new Blues seemed to have equal problems of not knowing what anyone else was doing, or capable of, or what the key parts of the landscape were, why and where. At least Gunter wasn't alone.

He was absolutely beat when he hung up his medigun (he hadn't even bothered trying the weapons yet) and went to shower. That made sense, showering at the end of the day, even if it reinforced the feeling of being in a dorm.

Then it was time to eat – Liam's food again – and they all ate like starving wolves. Vlad told them they might go into battle in the morning, if Samson was up to it. Gunter had forgotten about Samson, and tiredly wondered if everything had worked out, but he didn't ask. All he could think of was getting to bed and passing out for the night.

Which he did.

Martin, as always, used the shower attached to the infirmary. He was well-known for being a bit fussy: fussy enough to wear fine suits into battle, and far too fussy to shower with the unwashed barbarians who were his comrades-in-arms. It helped that this sort of fussiness was a common trait among Spies. No one who'd been here long questioned this.

Of course, the new hands might have questions, when one of the noticed that their Spy never, ever showered with the group. It happened sometimes, and they'd never had so many new mercs at once. That he could deal with, if Vlad didn't beat him to it.

Martin finished redressing, clothing clean from the skin outward: undershirt and briefs, pants, dress shirt, jacket, tie. Appearances were important, always, more so than comfort. He didn't put the balaclava that hid his face back on; he only wore that when expecting to be seen by a Red. Giving his teammates reason to trust him was far more important than keeping his face hidden at all times, as his Red counterpart seemed to do.

Besides, there was always a bit of a thrill in letting them see that much of himself, and knowing they could not use it to guess more about him.

Martin fastened his cuff links last of all, and frowned. The new Medic – who clearly wasn't German at all despite his name, all of his body language was American – probably hadn't realized yet that he too had access to this more private space to shower. It was, after all, his infirmary.

Well. Martin's lips curved into a sly smile. He would deal with that issue when it arrived.


	5. Chapter 5: Uberman

Morning came too soon, but Gunter didn't feel too bad, even upon remembering he was still stuck here. He dressed, choosing a clean uniform, and frowned when he saw the now-dried bloodstains on yesterday's clothes. He should have done something about that last night. If he couldn't clean it himself, BLU would likely take it out of his pay. But he couldn't work on it now. Gunter settled for filling his sink with water and leaving the affected fabric to soak. Reflecting that he didn't want to be the Medic in stained clothes, he left his new coat in his room when he went to breakfast.

He could feel tension in the mess – not directed at him, but a generalized sense of something about to happen. Samson was also here, eating. Not much, but he was eating. Liam was scolding Samson incomprehensibly, possibly about not eating enough. The old hands were eating fast. Sasha and Lonnie came in after Gunter.

Gunter decided to follow his teammates' lead. They must know something, he thought. So he ate quickly while trying not to wolf his food.

Vlad finished first, rapped on the table to get everyone's attention, and spoke. "We're fighting today, ladies."

Everyone groaned, but the old hands didn't look surprised.

"It's a standard battle, we'll try to take no-man's-land and keep it. We have Samson back with us," all heads turned to the Heavy, "and that's a plus. We have our new Medic to thank for that."

Gunter looked around and took heart from the nods from the other men. Then he looked at Lonnie, sitting across the table from him, eyes narrowed in what might be dislike. What was that about? Maybe the old man had indigestion.

"It's going to be rough," Vlad was saying. "I won't deny it. Half of us are new and they'll take full advantage of that. Keep moving. Use your ammo freely." He checked his watch. "The battle starts in thirty minutes. Samson, you're with me and Krieg. He's the new Pyro. You've already met Doc. That's Sasha, our Scout, and Finn's the Sniper. You two get with Liam before the fight. Lonnie's on cleanup. Doc, you recon with Spy and make sure you're fully equipped."

Gunter took a deep breath. He had his coat on now, and over that the backpack. The syringe gun and bonesaw hung from dummy cords on his belt. Gunter hoped he wouldn't need to use them, not only because he couldn't imagine using them, but also because he needed both hands to carry the medigun. He doubted he'd have time to set the medigun down safely, draw a weapon and use it in time to make a difference.

He tucked a pair of sunglasses into his coat pocket. The weather promised to be sunny, and Gunter would rather not deal with glare on top of everything else. His belt pouches held things from the previous Medic: one was full of peppermints, and another held what looked like twisted herbs and grasses wrapped in a leaf of tobacco. Gunter didn't smoke or chew the stuff, so he emptied those onto the desk, but he kept the peppermints. The rest of the "extras" were spare syringes in a magazine (he hadn't known that was even possible), a set of keys and other odds and ends.

"I guess I'm ready," he said to Martin. He looked at the Spy. "We're going to get killed, aren't we?" He dreaded this. He really, really didn't want to die. Sure, he'd been told about Respawn, but he couldn't believe it.

"Some of us will," the Spy said calmly. "But it will not last. And we will hope to kill the others, more often than we ourselves are killed."

That didn't make Gunter feel better, and it showed on his face.

Martin gave him that one-shouldered shrug. "I will not spare your feelings with a foolish lie. But you will survive the day, as will we all. If it were that easy to die here, I would not be standing before you – I have been doing this for years, as Mademoiselle Pauling said. Perhaps for as long as you spent studying archaeology. If you trust your own knowledge in your own field, trust mine in this one."

"MISSION BEGINS IN SIXTY SECONDS," boomed a harsh female voice from every available speaker, and it sounded like they must be all over the base.

The Blues were in the ready room. Sasha swayed from foot to foot in nervous excitement. Vlad was giving last-minute instructions to Finn in Russian. The Sniper still looked confused, but what choice did any of them have?

Then Vlad switched back to English. "Sasha, just keep moving. You're fast and you'll be hard to hit. Don't stop for anything, except maybe to deliver a beating. _Keep moving_. Krieg, the Medic is a great target, but watch out for their Heavy, they work as a close team. Doc."

"MISSION BEGINS IN THIRTY SECONDS."

Gunter looked up. He'd started fiddling with his sunglasses in his own form of nervous fidgeting.

"If you're wearing those, put them on and start charging that medigun. You should concentrate on me and Samson. Don't worry about following anyone else. If someone comes into your path, heal them, otherwise stick to us. You'll get the hang of it." Vlad looked around at them all. "All right, boys. Better dead than Red, right?" He grinned.

Better dead than red. Yeah. Gunter tried to take another deep breath. His mouth was dry and his palms sweaty, but he was already running the medigun, aiming it at Samson.

"TEN. NINE. EIGHT." The voice counted down. That was the Administrator, Gunter had been told. She took a personal interest in the battles. Did she have cameras to watch the action as well?

"THREE. TWO. ONE." The bars slid back automatically from the ready room doors. Liam, Vlad and Sasha dashed out first. They seemed so confident, almost eager. Lonnie and Krieg followed; the engineer carried a huge toolbox with both arms. Finn took off toward the right. Samson finally roused himself and began lumbering out. Gunter followed, realized he hadn't seen Martin lately, then guessed the Spy had already begun doing whatever Spies do. He was glad he had his sunglasses on, as the early morning light shone down on the battlefield. Already there was gunfire and men yelling and screaming, though not yet in pain.

Gunter stumbled after Samson into the morning light. Birds erupted into the sky, startled by the gunfire and noise, and Gunter thought of the doves at the infirmary window, and that he hadn't fed them yesterday.

The noise was varied: screams, yells, taunts, gunfire, explosions, Lonnie putting together some kind of machine, and Vlad was ahead of Gunter and Samson, firing a rocket launcher into a wooden two-story structure that couldn't possibly withstand assault, but it did.

Gunter looked down to check the charge on the medigun. When it reached full, he was supposed to use it on Samson or Vlad.

Samson was still moving forward, though not very energetically, with his minigun spinning, and Gunter could keep up with him without problem. He moved sideways to look around the Heavy, and saw a huge bald man with an identical minigun in the building's doorway. That minigun spat a hail of bullets, and Vlad burst into bloody chunks of bone and flesh and sprays of blood. Something wet hit Gunter's cheek.

Gunter froze in shock. That hadn't happened. No. He suddenly felt very detached from reality, the noise very distant, and he swayed, unable to take action.

This was his first battle, the important one. He had to prove he could go toe to toe with these turds. Sasha was first out of the gate, long legs eating up the uneven ground, head swiveling to either side looking for targets. Didn't want to get too far ahead and get surrounded, though. Sasha saw a flicker of movement and fired – just a building panel catching the light – but the air there shimmered and he saw drops of blood hit the dirt.

"Spy here!" he yelled. Then he backpedaled as the Red Soldier fired a rocket launcher at him. "I joined this team just to kill maggots like you!" Red Soldier screamed at him.

Lonnie's job was always the same: build sentries and dispensers. He had no confidence in the new Medic, who would never be a real doctor like Dr. Lamb. That meant Lonnie had to build more dispensers and help the team stay alive. He was very pessimistic about their chances, with half the team so green. They might do so poorly that the Administrator would declare Red the winners, and the war over.

He was defenseless until he got his first sentry up, because he had to build it, and he couldn't attack while it was building. Lonnie ignored the chaos around him, only grunting acknowledgment when a dismembered hand landed nearby. The sentry was up at last; now for the dispenser. He took a quick look around and fired at any Red he could see.

Two days of being shown where to go and what to shoot at: anyone wearing Red, or the Red machines. That was all he needed to know. Kill them and don't get killed. It some ways it was familiar, but only a little. Finn loped up metal stairs to gain high ground, rifle at the ready.

Settling in above the fighting, Finn saw a flash, reflection of light off a targeting scope. That was the other one, the one with a rifle. Kill as many as he could in this chaos. He would have to survive this for two years. He aimed and fired.

Liam grunted as a bullet grazed his leg. Red Scout was dancing around him, taunting. Liam blew him to hell with a sticky bomb. "Medic!" he yelled, as Red Pyro came out of a nearby tunnel.

Samson no longer felt dead inside, but he had no great enthusiasm for his work any more. Why keep fighting? He could earn money elsewhere that would spend just as well at home. There were many less dangerous lines of work, too. He had put in his time; he could get out now, if he wanted to.

He hardly noticed the carnage around him; he'd become accustomed to it over the years. But he did hear a choking noise behind him after Vlad was killed. He turned to look.

The new medic didn't resemble David in the least. The only similarity was the first time dealing with death as a Blue; David had been like that at the beginning, too, even with Samson's warnings. Samson had been to war before coming to BLU; David never had.

"Now, Doctor!" he snapped at the obviously panicking medic. "Overcharge!"

The medic stared at him, eyes invisible behind the sunglasses but doubtless wide and possibly about to roll up into his head.

"NOW!" Samson shouted, feeling his old anger starting to stir. "Before you get us all killed!" Would he have to hit the man? Not at this moment – something in his tone or words must have done it, as Doc (Samson couldn't remember if he'd heard the medic's name yet) suddenly activated the Ubercharge. Samson turned back to face the Reds, and opened fire, secure in a few seconds of being bulletproof.

This death had been quick and painless, and Vlad had gone through innumerable deaths in his time as a Blue. He respawned and ran back out in time to see Doc and Samson ubercharged. Good. Maybe they'd do all right today.

As always, Martin had cloaked when the Announcer began the one-minute countdown. He stood against the door, the better to slip outside and out of the way of the more direct fighters. His job was a unique one: to stay cloaked or disguised and foil the enemy's plans, preferably without them knowing he'd ever been there.

This time, with several new teammates and no way of knowing how any of them might react if it was their first time in a battle, it seemed prudent to ensure their defenses were up and running, so he hovered – still cloaked – near Lonnie for a time, ready to stab or shoot any would-be attackers until the mechanic got his first machine up and running.

…Good. Lonnie had a sentry now, and it would guard him while he worked on a dispenser, and then on upgrades. Martin moved on.

He stayed slow in open areas, since the cloak was less effective the faster he moved, and he had no desire to be summarily executed by the enemy Sniper so early in the day. Still hidden, he made his way across the battlefield, running when he knew he could not be seen, standing still when the cloak needed to recharge. He knew where the enemy Engineer liked to set up shop, and intended to disrupt the Reds' support as early and as often as he could.

_It was a pleasure to burn._

Krieg sprinted out with the rest of the team, splintering off soon. You had to get close to someone to burn them, and with so many people here using ranged weapons – machine guns, sniper rifles, even rocket launchers – he would have to be sneaky to get that close.

"Spy here!" yelled the skinny little scout with a girl's name – Sasha, that was right – and Krieg was there. The Red Soldier was in front of him when he rounded the corner, was firing a rocket launcher at Sasha and Krieg couldn't have stopped it if he wanted to, but the Soldier's attention was directed ahead of him, and the click of the flamethrower igniting was lost in the roar of the rockets.

_It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed._

He pushed forward as the Soldier screamed and flailed in excruciating futility at the flames that engulfed him. He would have liked to stand still and watch, but if there was a Spy ahead, there was more fun to be had. He pushed forward, turning the brass nozzle to give more fuel to the flame, hoping to catch the cloaked man hiding perhaps in a corner.

_The blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history._

Krieg spared a thought for the little Scout – had he gotten away, or had the rockets killed him, and he had already respawned? – but that wasn't a priority. They could make a good team in the future, perhaps, if Sasha always attracted attention so well. Ambush made the burning easier, and so much sweeter.

If he couldn't find the Spy, would the building itself burn?

_His eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies._

Alas, it seemed his prey had escaped him this time. He stalked away, looking for his next opportunity to fight.

The Ubercharge stopped, and Gunter noticed his vision clear up significantly. Even his hearing had been affected by what had happened, but now he was back in the real world and the noise just kept going, nonstop battle.

He saw Sasha backpedal, get knocked off a railing, and Gunter tried to bring the medigun to bear on the Scout. A stream of healing blue energy washed over the boy, preventing him from dying, and Gunter kept it up, not wanting anyone else to die.

"Thanks, Doc!" Sasha bounced back up and kept running.

He'd done it. Gunter grinned foolishly to himself. He'd done it! He'd kept someone alive!

"Medic!" someone yelled, and Gunter turned to see Vlad, whole and alive. "Dammit, Doc, get over here!"

Gunter rushed to him.

"Keep that medigun on!" Vlad bawled, and Gunter realized he'd shut it off after healing Sasha. He turned it on, focusing on Vlad now. Vlad was alive. That Respawn – did it really work?

Oh yeah, he was kicking ass! Sasha dropped his shotgun on the dummy cord and grabbed for his bat. There was an easy target, their crazy Red Medic.

There was terrible searing pain across his legs. Sasha stumbled and fell, and looked up to see the Red Engineer smiling at him in a friendly way, even as the sentry tore Sasha to shreds.

Sentry and dispenser were up. Time to move to the next location. He whistled, two sharp single notes, and Liam heard him and came to assist. The Demoman would keep Lonnie under cover while the Engineer moved to the next location and set up another sentry and dispenser. They'd been here almost the same amount of time, and knew how to do their jobs.

Finn heard a noise behind him and turned, using the rifle to defend himself, but it was too late. The Red Spy looked at him as though it was really too pathetically easy. He wiped his knife on a handkerchief as Finn felt himself die.

Finn respawned, no pain. Hnn. So it was true, they would fight forever all day and not die. Interesting. As far as the fighting, that meant he could afford to take more chances if he couldn't die. He must also be much more careful about Spies. This one undoubtedly knew all the places the last man had used, Finn must find new shooting places, or shoot on the run.

Samson had been taken out by the Red Sniper, which was par for the course, but when he came through Respawn, he found the new Scout obsessively running his hands over his legs as though he couldn't believe they were real.

"Scout," he said (and his voice always came out rumbling, he'd been told). The boy looked up at him, shaken and pale.

"Keep fighting," Samson continued. "It's the only way to get used to it." And he ran out. A moment later, Sasha sprinted past him, still pale, but determined.

Liam lay some stickybomb cover near a tunnel exit and caught someone that way – looked like his Red counterpart. Suddenly he realized that this place looked very empty of Blues, which wasn't good for himself or Lonnie. Liam began firing in every direction as a precaution. And they still needed to get to the control point.

Vlad finished beating the Red Scout's head in with his entrenching tool. He looked around. Actually, they were doing all right, as long as the goal was just to keep fighting. But they weren't making any forward progress.

"C'mon, Doc," he said to his Medic. "That thing should be on overcharge now, right? Let's go. Hit it!"

The overcharge happened just as the Red Heavy came around the corner behind Doc. Vlad was cheered by the Heavy's look of surprise, and delivered a massive backward swing to the man's head. The entrenching tool's blade was sharpened, and blood sprayed as the Russian staggered back.

Martin was disappointed to see the Red Pyro standing guard over the Red Engineer and his machines. The Pyro in question was spychecking, spreading flames around to make sure the Engineer couldn't be taken by surprise while his guard was down, focused on upgrading a dispenser.

But there he was, Blue's own new Pyro, rounding a corner from the other side. Pyros' flameproof suits meant they would have trouble hurting each other. Perhaps Martin could get the drop on the Red Pyro, and leave his teammate to take out the Engineer. Martin tensed, ready to leap on the enemy Pyro at the first opening.

Gunter felt like he was getting the hang of this. Keep healing, stay out of the fighting. But there was so much blood and gore, and more than once he had to fight the urge to be sick.

Then he died, and it was horrible.

A bullet (whose?) tore into his shoulder, and he stumbled back. It hurt like all hell, hot and yet there was a feeling like cold liquid seeping into it at the same time. He couldn't turn the medigun on himself, it was too long to point at himself and still pull the handle-trigger.

Then came the fire, washing over him, and Gunter screamed and the fire entered his lungs, searing burning killing –

– and he was in the Respawn room, curled up in an awkward ball. No more fire. No more bullets. No more blood or pain. No more going out there.

"Doc." It was Liam, nobody else had a voice like that. "Doc, get up."

No. He wouldn't get burned to death again.

"Doctor. They will die without you."

No. They were all dying anyway.

"On your feet, golubka! I will _not_ allow you to let your team down!"

Gunter yelped involuntarily as he was struck by a belt – it had been years since Father had taken the belt to him, but his immediate response was to leap to his feet and get away as fast as he could, carrying the medigun because it was slowing him down to drag it.

He ran through the ready room and back outside before his brain recognized the screaming obscenities as Vlad's voice, complete with extra strikes from a switch or belt or whatever it was across his backside and legs, the only part the soldier could reach.

"_Heal_, you no-good egg-sucking pansy-ass motherfucker!" Vlad drove Gunter forward, and the Medic had no choice but to run away and toward the battle. There they suddenly were, Reds and Blues and bullets and rockets and fire and explosions, shrieking and dismembered bodies and calls for assistance, and Gunter felt as though none of it was real. He'd gone insane, that had to be it.

_"Heal, you bastard!"_

Krieg approached the enemy Engineer and the Pyro who was guarding him. He twisted the fitting at the tip of the flamethrower again and swung it in a wide arc. He would burn them both, and the machinery too, and this time he would take a moment to enjoy the fact of it, the wreckage of flesh and metal in the irreversible change that was combustion.

_Combustion is an irreversible exothermic reaction in which any hydrocarbon combines with atmospheric oxygen to produce carbon dioxide and water._

It didn't damage the enemy Pyro, though, his counterpart on the other side. Of course not, he should have realized: they were each wearing the same flameproof suits. Damn, he'd given his opponent a chance to draw his ax first, and he wouldn't even get to enjoy the fire.

_It also, of course, produces heat. That is the meaning of exothermic. In some cases, exothermic reactions only produce a mild warmth._

But as the Engineer screamed, the Red Pyro only turned his own flamethrower on Krieg for a few seconds. It seemed like an oddly friendly gesture, as if the other man were merely saying hello. Krieg got the feeling that the Red would be smiling at him, if he could have seen the other's face.

_But in a combustion reaction, of course, a great deal of heat is produced very quickly – so quickly that we can see an open flame._

The sentry beeped and fired on Krieg. It had been a good run, at least. The last thing he saw was his own team's Spy, leaping apparently out of thin air to stab the enemy Pyro and turn quickly to apply some device to the sentry. It seemed almost a shame.

It seemed like he blinked, and then Krieg was in the Respawn room. He took stock: his body was whole, including his torso where the sentry had hit him again and again. Even his uniform was in one piece.

He smiled broadly, which no one could have seen anyway, with the gas mask on his face. And then he laughed, letting it shake through his whole body – and no one could have missed that, if there had been anyone to see, the Pyro convulsing with laughter after his first death. But the Respawn room was empty for the moment, except for himself. By the time the Spy appeared behind him, Krieg was already running back onto the field, to find out what else he could do in this new place, with his new tools and the new rules afforded by the power of Respawn.

He was immortal, and he could do as he pleased to anyone wearing red. This was going to be _glorious._


	6. Chapter 6: Break

By lunchtime Gunter had died several more times, none quite so bad as the first, but every death was still terrible.

The Blues took lunch in the shade of an awning, one of Lonnie's dispensers providing beer and sandwiches upon pressing a button. Finn ate, drank, then put his hat over his face. Possibly he slept.

Sasha was shaky and also lay down. He figured he couldn't sleep, he was too wired, even after running more in four hours than he felt he'd ever run in his life. His eyes closed in mid-chew.

Gunter sat a little way off from the others, arms wrapped around drawn-up knees, staring into space. He had been mostly on autopilot, doing his job but not thinking much, or clearly.

The old hands were trying to look on the bright side. Krieg and Finn had adjusted well. Sasha was getting there. Samson was doing all right, even if his heart wasn't quite in it like it used to be, but that was expected. The Blues were continually failing to reach objectives today, but half the team was new. And then there was the Medic.

With a nod to the other veterans, the Spy left their group and went to sit in the grass beside the new Medic with a hearty sandwich and a beer.

"You must eat." Medic continued to stare into space. Martin sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose through the mask. "Doctor Schlachterhauser. Gunter. You must eat. You are not required to talk, but you must eat. And drink as well, you must rehydrate yourself. Otherwise you will overheat, and die many more times as a result."

He spoke very gently, but firmly. Vlad had used the stick – almost literally! – to get this man back on the field after his first death. It was time for the carrot, and that was Martin's job.

No, he would not talk. If he talked he would break, and he couldn't break. Not here, not now. He'd lost his sunglasses during the morning, and he blinked now, several times, but not because of the sun.

Martin was talking gently to him. Martin was the only one here who used his name. Gunter was afraid to look at the Spy, because that might make him break, too.

He'd heard the advice many times during his summer digs: eat, drink, keep up your strength. How could he eat after what he had been through? He was trembling now, and ducked his head into his arms for a moment, trying to keep himself from flying apart into bloody chunks.

"Sniper's watchin' us," Liam said.

"God dammit," Vlad swore. So Red was seeing the Blue Medic fall to pieces. It wasn't helping his own team either. Martin had better be successful. Or maybe Vlad should put in a request for a new Medic.

"I can't do this," Gunter whispered, his voice breaking. He shouldn't talk.

Martin kept talking to him. "You must. You are halfway through the day. Tonight, I will get you a drink that is much harder than this beer. And you can talk, or get drunk, or whatever is needed to get this out of your head. But now, you must eat, and drink. Then perhaps, if you like, a cigarette."

Gunter focused hard, very hard, on what was in front of him, which was a patch of bare, hard ground at the base of the building. If he could just focus and, and… day was halfway done, halfway done…

He crawled, slowly, on hands and knees to the bare patch of dirt.

"What in the holy hell is he doing?" Vlad wondered aloud. Nobody else knew, either. They all stared at the Medic as he stood, walked unsteadily toward them, not really seeing them, and picked up Vlad's entrenching tool, then went back to the bare patch. He dug into the ground, not much, just enough to break up the packed earth.

At least, Vlad thought, the Reds wouldn't know what to make of Doc's behavior either.

"Boys," he said quietly, "whatever Doc's doing, it's perfectly normal."

"But – " Lonnie began.

"Perfectly normal," Vlad said sternly. "And we're not worried about him. Got it? Good."

"He's just digging in the dirt," Red Sniper said, perplexed.

"Why?"

"Dunno, mate. Maybe lookin' for gold. Wait, th' Spy's with him. I think they found somethin'."

"Vat does ze rest of ze team do?"

"Seemed surprised at first, but now they're ignorin' him."

"What th' fuck's he doin'?" Red Scout said, exasperated, voicing the question of all the Reds.

It was just a dig site. He didn't have a camera or a notebook, but he needed to excavate, to prize the treasures out of the earth, to learn their function, their history.

His assistant was admonishing him to eat. Yes. He couldn't stop, but he could eat. He took the food and ate without tasting; took the bottle and drank without realizing he was doing it. He felt some of his strength return. Yes. It was hot out here, he should take better care of himself. Wouldn't do to get sunstroke on a dig.

Someone not far away coughed. "Ten minutes, spook."

Spook? Gunter came back to the present. His artifacts were two mismatched washers, a screw, a dime and a penny, several bullet casings and an old human tooth. Martin was sitting next to him, watching him closely.

Gunter felt deflated. He'd gotten lost in his dream, and it had been a happy one, doing something he loved. But instead he was losing his mind, and delusional, and –

"I shouldn't be here," he said, his voice shaky. Everyone else here was a crazy or a killer or both. He looked at several empty beer bottles. He couldn't have drunk all of those, could he? Though he did, physically, feel better; it was his mind that was the problem.

"I think," he said, scrubbed his face with his sleeve, and tried again, "Thank you." That last was very quiet. Gunter was ashamed of himself, of going crazy, of doing it in front of everyone else (which was worse). "Tonight – ?" He looked at Martin. He still had half a day to get through, and he didn't want to be broken.

"Tonight," Martin said firmly. "Tonight, you will feel again. You have made it this far. Today, you will put away what you feel, and think very little. Only act. Put yourself away, in a corner of your head, and be someone else, doing a thing which does not matter. Someone who is playing a game, which will harm no one, and from which all the players will walk away."

He stood, offered Gunter a hand, and pulled the medic to his feet.

"Cigarette?" he offered.

It didn't show – he didn't _allow_ it to show, and the balaclava helped with that – but Martin was relieved that Gunter seemed to have returned to reality, and that he was responding now. He had seen this sort of reaction before, even if the rest of the team had not. That time, it had taken much longer.

That time, witnessing the wreckage left from a loss of innocence, it had led Martin to murder a man. He had never even considered such a thing before then.

He continued to watch Gunter very closely without looking at him directly. Took a drag of his own cigarette.

"You're not crazy, Gunter," he said, and made eye contact now. Many men here clung to their titles, as a way to separate their roles in this place from their selves. Martin made sure to call Gunter by his name. The man needed to hear his own name, needed that anchor to reality, to the life he'd known before. Probably he had never seen someone die before, even before he died as well. "You're not crazy, and this will not make you crazy. You will see. Tonight."

Gunter took the cigarette. He didn't smoke much; he'd tried a pipe in college, for the professorial look, but didn't like the ache in his jaw from having to hold it there. But now and then he'd smoke. The bitter tang filled his lungs, and after a few drags he felt a little less tense.

He wanted to ask how could you _not_ go crazy doing this, day after day, week after week, and Martin had been doing it four years, Miss Pauling had said. How could he keep hold of himself?

Vlad was rousting the rest of the Blue team. Sasha looked groggy, like he had no idea where he was or what was going on. Finn woke easily and seemed unaffected by any of this. Was Finn crazy, Gunter wondered, to not be affected? Or just more stable?

"Come on, ladies," Vlad bawled. "Get ready."

When they broke for lunch, Krieg took off his headgear, but not the fireproof suit. It seemed too much trouble to remove the suit for so short a break, even though he would certainly have been more comfortable without the insulation trapping his body heat inside. So he took a little food and a lot of beer, sat in the shadiest spot he could find, and tried to cool down.

He smoked a cigarette, too, relaxing there in the shade. It was nice, but the flame didn't hold quite the same fascination it always had. He was a mess under the suit, filthy and sopping with sweat, but he was ready to get back on the field. He had discovered, just before the break, that he could puff air from his flamethrower without using the flame, and had used it to knock the enemy Medic into a corner after setting him aflame. The Heavy got him then, of course, before he could follow up; but he doubted the Red Medic had survived, and – he could see endless possibilities. He needed this break, of course, they all did, but he was eager to get back on the field and find out what else he could do.

Their own Medic was acting strange, digging in the dirt like a child in a sandbox. When Soldier told them to pretend it was normal, Krieg didn't have to feign indifference. His elation was too great to let the foibles of one weak-minded bastard impinge on his happiness. The man would come around, or he would be replaced. To him, it scarcely mattered which.

Put yourself away, Martin had said. This was a game. Nobody was really dying.

As a child, Gunter had played cowboys and Indians. The neighborhood children had also played Germans and Japs, and he always had to play on the German team, of course. If he looked at it like that, it was a little easier. It was just a giant game of cowboys and Indians.

But as the afternoon fighting began, he seemed to be dying a _lot_ – he tried to picture it as heading back to base after being 'tagged' – sometimes as soon as he stepped outside.

He wasn't the only one who noticed. Vlad realized what was happening too. Ironically it was allowing Blue to advance more, because the Reds were targeting Doc every time he showed his face. Oh, sure, they were attacking the rest of the Blues too, but the Reds were aiming deliberately for Doc, and this was bad, because –

Lonnie respawned about the same time as Doc. The Medic was summoning his courage to venture forth again, though it was plain he would rather wrestle a bear with his bare hands, when Lonnie punched him in the chest, enough to make him step back, and it stung.

"Stay here!" Lonnie said. "You're more trouble than you're worth!" He began to go out; Doc tried to follow; Lonnie stopped and swung his wrench menacingly. "Are you stupid, college boy? They're killing you for points! They're winning because of you! Just stay out of the way and you won't wreck it for the rest of us!" Now he left. With Doc gone, it was up to Lonnie to keep everyone healed and supplied. It would be difficult, but he could sure do better than that useless egghead.

Gunter stood and stared. Was that – was he right? That was the longest he'd ever heard Lonnie talk. Was he – but he was getting killed constantly, and even Red Medic had slashed him to death with the bonesaw, and…

Samson respawned a little later and found the Medic crouched by the gate, poking at the dirt again. He sympathized for the doctor. David had struggled too, those first days, and he'd been warned ahead of time what to expect. Samson suspected nobody had told the new Doc, or not properly. David hadn't wanted to kill anyone, just help. This one seemed the same; his weapons hadn't been touched once as far as Samson knew.

"Come on, Doctor," he said, putting a hand on Doc's shoulder. The man looked up, unfocused. "Stand up. Stay by me. I'll protect you." He too had seen the Reds making a game of killing the Blue Medic. "Build up your overcharge. We'll use it when we get there. Remember that it protects you, too. Use it on yourself even if nobody else is nearby, and you are in danger."

No, nobody had told Doc about that. Samson and David had learned how to complement each other. He would teach the new Medic how to be strong, how to work with a Heavy. Samson felt a little of the lingering ache in his heart fade.


	7. Chapter 7: What Rough Beast

The afternoon still felt like an eternity. By the time a siren went off signaling the end of the fighting, Gunter was mentally numb. He'd vomited again, but off in private, which was more luck than planning.

If he could have paid attention to the rest of the team, he would have seen Sasha also exhausted, on rubbery legs, wanting nothing more than to collapse and sleep; Finn looking haggard; Lonnie's expression was dark and murderous, and Vlad was already starting the evening's chain-smoking.

They'd failed, as Vlad had expected. He'd known that with half the team green, the Blues would have an uphill battle. The Reds had rubbed it in, of course, especially about the new guys, and particularly Doc. Doc might as well have taken the afternoon off for all the good he did. The only good thing about being the Reds' chosen target was that it let the Blues achieve a couple of objectives before Red stopped playing around – but they shouldn't have felt they could afford to play around in the first place.

One more day and then the weekend, and Vlad decided he had to run the whole team through more drills during their spare time. It was the only way they'd get nonlethal practice. And if Doc didn't shape up… Vlad was ready to give Pauling an earful about sending him a gimp Medic.

Gunter went to the infirmary; he was the only one (as far as he knew) who had a separate room, this room, to keep his equipment. He hung up the weapons and the blood-spattered medigun. He didn't feel like cleaning it; he didn't feel like doing anything at all. No, that wasn't true…

He sat on the edge of the operating table and didn't think for a while. He realized he was looking at a door. Not the exit. Other door. He lurched to his feet and looked inside. It was a very small toilet and a single-person shower stall.

He had his own private shower.

He left his clothes on the floor and turned the water on as hot as he could stand. He had no new visible scars, but some scars don't show.

Partway through scrubbing his face – there was no soap in here and he didn't care right now – he began to sob. He dug his fingernails into his forehead, hard. The pain didn't stop the tears.

He slid to the floor and curled up again, alone, utterly miserable, and raked his scalp with his nails, crying. He lay there a long time, and eventually the water got less warm, and the tears stopped, and he felt utterly empty and devoid of hope or happiness or anything positive.

And the water got colder, and the body resisted the urge to lie down and die. Gunter managed to stand, shut off the water, and found a towel. He was exhausted, drained, and wasn't sure what to do next.

"I thought you would want clean clothes, after your shower," Martin said, mumbling around yet another cigarette and not turning around from whatever he was doing at the sink. "I took the liberty of picking the lock of your room to get them for you. I hope you do not object."

The Spy was, himself, unshowered and still in a suit that bore evidence of his day's labors. He had not been killed once in the afternoon, testament as much to the Reds' single-minded focus on Blue Medic as to his own skill, and it showed on his suit. He hadn't wanted to sully clean clothing with an unwashed body, so he had only taken off his mask and gloves while the doctor occupied the only private shower in the base.

He had taken special pleasure in repeatedly seeking out the Red Sniper, and stabbing him in his nest. Twice, he had managed the kill before the Sniper could squeeze out a shot that would have killed Gunter on his way out of the Respawn zone.

"I can leave the room while you dress, if that will make you more comfortable," he added, pouring something from a brown bottle over the cloth he had in the sink. It fizzed as it struck the fabric. "Just let me rinse this, and it will be ready for the wash, and will not stain."

Gunter could see, now, that it his own uniform from the day before, that he'd left soaking in the sink upstairs.

"Then it will be time for supper. Then a debriefing. Then the drink I promised you."

Gunter didn't have capacity for much more shock at this point. Spy getting into his room only made him feel more ineffectual. Still, he wasn't crying any more, and Martin must not have heard anything, so nobody would know of that shame.

Gunter took the clothes from the table – his own, that he'd brought with him – and dressed. He felt a little more like himself, wearing familiar clothes. Martin had got his kit-bag, too, so Gunter made an effort to comb his hair, if he still had to appear before the team. The debriefing worried him. He couldn't remember doing much correctly; he'd been a punching bag for the Reds. Combat was much worse than his half-day of practice had led him to believe.

"You," Gunter's voice was hoarse, "if you want to, use the shower here…" It was thanks for helping Gunter both on and off the battlefield.

He gratefully accepted another cigarette from Martin. As he smoked, he looked up at the clerestory window, and saw the expectant birds there.

Gunter made himself stand and retrieve the bag of birdseed. He opened the window to let the doves in, and give them their food. They eyed him this time before fluttering down. Even simple creatures like doves knew he wasn't "their" Medic. Not a real one.

"_Mercí_," Martin said, turning from the sink for the first time. "Tonight, perhaps. For now, time is short. If I might borrow your comb? I admit that I am vain enough to not wish to entire team to see me thus." He indicated the messy state his hair had been left in after he removed the balaclava.

He left the door of the little bathroom open, and watched Gunter feeding the doves as he slicked down his hair with the borrowed comb. Every movement the Medic made spoke of someone who was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted, yet forcing himself to keep functioning all the same.

"Some would say they are like wolves," Martin said at last. "The Reds, and the way they targeted you today. They are under no obligation to play fair. It happens sometimes, especially when a new man joins the team, but today half our team was new. Some would say they were like wolves, looking for the weakest antelope to single from the herd."

He wet the comb again, frowning into the mirror at a recalcitrant curl. "And it is true, if they were able to drive you away, it would weaken the team. And that would be a victory for them. However."

He gave the comb a final rinse, dried it, and returned it to Gunter.

"I think they are not so rational as wolves. They are like chickens, which will work together to peck another chicken to death if it has a speck of blood – or even if it has a colored feather in the wrong place. Not even a weakness, just a minor difference which does not matter at all. Chickens have very small brains.

"Fortunately, chickens often lose focus when interrupted. And if they do not – well, chickens only attack other chickens in this way. If they do not leave you alone shortly, we shall merely have to prove to them that you are some other kind of beast."

Removing the weakest from the herd… that sounded about right. But then Martin was going on about chickens. Gunter felt he should understand, but he didn't want to any more. He wanted to crawl into bed and escape into sleep.

He realized one dove was looking closely at him. Gunter stared back dully. It couldn't think he was familiar, not after the last feeding two days ago, could it? It was a bold little thing, walking in that funny way doves do, then flying up to his shoulder.

He held very still, hardly daring to breathe. Animals had never been part of his life; animals were for eating. Having a bird this close to him was almost magical. Would it allow him to touch it? It was so close, its feathers so delicate and shining.

Gunter reached up, hesitantly, but he wasn't sure how to hold a wild bird, or even a tame one. It seemed to sense his state of mind, and flew, rejoining its flock as they exited the window for the open skies. One wing brushed Gunter's cheek. It was soft yet strong.

The previous Medic had cared for these doves, and that's why they were so tame. Gunter imagined it like a children's movie, the birds following him around and singing – did doves sing? – and he laughed at the vision of himself like some kind of princess dancing with helper animals. It was the first thing he'd had to laugh about since he came here. His laughter had an unnatural sound, combined of rawness of emotion and throat.

Well, he thought, it would be painful, dinner and debriefing, and he didn't feel like eating, but he'd better get it over with. He nodded to Martin that he was ready.

Martin watched as Gunter laughed at the bird that had flown up to his shoulder before flying away again. Though he was concerned, his expression was neutral, perhaps a bit quizzical. Laughter was probably a good sign, he decided. Even if it sounded hoarse and a bit unsteady, it did not sound hysterical.

Liam's evening food so far was always fiery hot, the morning food always blandly filling. Gunter wondered why that was. It should be the opposite. Fiery food in the morning to get everyone revved up. Maybe it was like this to keep the men awake at the end of the day.

He ate listlessly, avoiding eye contact, praying he wouldn't draw attention to himself. Not now.

Sasha and Finn still struggled with the new tastes. Nobody talked much.

At last it was done, and Vlad signaled to hold off on cleaning up the dishes. "I'll make it brief, don't worry.

"We sucked eggs out there today, boys. I know, it was the first day for a bunch of you. And we'll get better. You need practice, you need to learn teamwork all over again. We'll be doing that this weekend too.

"I'll be frank, we'll get creamed again tomorrow. But we'll keep trying, because we're Blues, and we're getting paid well.

"Sasha. You're not mobile enough."

Gunter tuned Vlad out as the soldier went over everyone's good and bad points. Just get through this and it would be over soon.

"Doc…"

Gunter looked up for the first time.

"They're targeting you, and they'll likely do it again." Vlad sighed in frustration. "I'm glad you kept coming out and didn't give up. Sometimes when that happens, when they start targeting you, you don't feel like coming back out. But you did, and it shows you've got guts."

Really?

"I know you've got what it takes to be our Medic. You – "

Lonnie interrupted. "He's not even a real doctor. He lost his mind today. I don't want him guarding my back."

The table went very quiet. Gunter had to agree with the Engineer. Maybe they'd kick him out. That's what he wanted, wasn't it?

Samson stirred to Gunter's right. "Nobody here remembers, except Vlad, and Martin. My brother came here as a real doctor. He had not been to war, like me. He had seen death, but not like ours. He, too, suffered at the beginning. And he had the previous Medic to show him how to do his job."

David had been shocked by what the fighting was like. He hadn't been like this one, digging in the dirt, but he'd had nightmares, been sick, had had to adjust. He'd sometimes said that none of them could ever return to civilian life after all the death and gore, when it became ordinary.

Talking about David was evidently painful, but Samson pushed on. "This doctor, nobody has trained. I think he, too, has not seen war. David struggled, but he made it. He learned this life."

Now he looked at Gunter, who looked back up at the Heavy. "I will help the new doctor. I learned a lot about how a Medic needs to behave, from David. He will learn."

Gunter was speechless. He should thank the big man, but he felt unable to move or talk.

Lonnie slumped back in his chair, silent, scowling, but not contesting Samson's words.

Martin stood leaning against the wall. It was an uncivilized way to eat, but making someone sit next to him when he hadn't gotten to clean up after the day's battles would have been worse.

His gaze slid over Lonnie's. If Samson hadn't spoken up, Martin would have; but to back up Samson would only have made their Engineer feel attacked. He surveyed the rest of the team. Scout looked both shocked and relieved, like he was glad he wasn't the object of such contention. The new Sniper and Pyro were both hard to read, and Martin couldn't tell if Liam agreed with Lonnie or would be taking him to task over this later. He would have to watch that situation.

At least Heavy would also be looking out for their new Medic, and training him on the field, where Martin could be of little aid. It made the task of getting the man up to speed less daunting.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a tiny canoe!" Liam rolled his eyes. "So the man's new, an' a real toff from the look of 'im. A'course 'e wouldn't be good on 'is first day."

"Not even a real doctor," Lonnie grumbled from the engine compartment.

Liam leaned his chair back and blew a stream of sweet-scented smoke past the open garage door. Lonnie didn't permit smoking inside the motor pool, so Liam sat right outside. "So who cares? Vietnam's likely taking all the combat medics anyroad."

Lonnie hadn't thought of that. It made sense they'd get some dandy, if that were true.

"Besides," Liam's accent became less Irish and more Indian as he spoke, "If we don't have a full team, we can't fight, and if we don't fight, we don't get paid, and my smokes aren't cheap. If we lose him, we have to find someone else, and that will take time." He shrugged. "And I seem to remember _you_ committing a few mistakes in _your_ first days."

Lonnie slammed the hood down and wiped his hands on a rag. "Least Samson got stuck babysittin' him."

Gunter sat on the bed in his dark room, hugging his knees again. He was so tired, physically and emotionally, and yet he had no idea how he would sleep. If he _could_ sleep.

After dinner, Martin had disappeared, and Gunter had returned here. Perhaps he should just lie down and –

He heard a noise – at the window? He raised his head to look. Maybe a bird or a bat, or even a large insect, had fluttered against it? It couldn't be anyone outside, he was well above ground level.

He half got up, then decided not to, then the whole thing was rendered moot by a knock at the door. Gunter thought of not replying, but he hadn't locked the door, and it was probably Martin anyway.

"Come in," he said, still sitting on the bed, but properly, legs over the side.

Martin opened the door cautiously, a bottle in one hand and two glasses carefully balanced in the other.

"I believe that I promised you a drink, _non_?" the Spy asked, eyes flickering around the dark room. "Though if you are ready for sleep, I would not wish to intrude."

Gunter shook his head. "Don't think I can sleep," he rasped, and waved the Frenchman in.

Martin closed the door and busied himself pouring the drinks, a scant amount in one glass, a more generous two fingers in the other.

"_Eau de vie de vin_," he said, passing the fuller glass to Gunter. "You are not required to speak of the day, this evening. You are tired. I do not presume to know what you need most, talk or distraction or rest. You will tell me."

He took a sip from his own glass, and waited until Gunter had done the same. "But first there is one thing you need to know, I think, and that is that you did not lose your mind, today. No matter what the Engineer said, or what you may have thought."

Wine. Gunter's mouth made a twisted smile. Somehow he'd thought Martin would bring vodka or schnapps, stuff like that. Wine was probably better for him anyway. If he got drunk now, he'd really have problems.

It sure seemed like he'd lost his mind. Gunter stared at the dark liquid, then knocked it all back at once. Maybe he should get good and drunk. It tasted good, for the brief time it was over his tongue. He set the glass on the end table and rubbed his eye with the heel of his hand. He wanted to talk, but his thoughts jumbled around themselves like those white flecks in a snow-globe.

"How do you do it?" he blurted. "How do you keep going, all that blood, all that… they wanted me to be a surgeon, you know that? They did." He grabbed the glass and held it out for more wine. "I couldn't stand the blood. I don't faint or anything sissy like that, but I don't like getting it on me, or seeing it. I'm no coward, I got through the surgery, didn't I? But God, the… I don't know how you all do it, how you aren't bothered by it…" He sneezed, and nodded at Martin's murmured French, probably the equivalent of 'bless you.' "Or seeing the, the bones and lungs and," he began to laugh, and this time it was slightly hysterical, "you know my last name, you said it yourself, it's Slaughterhouse, you'd think I'd be perfect for this, wouldn't you? Oh God." Gunter stopped laughing, shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, hard. He didn't need to start bawling again. He tried to calm his breathing, but he felt like hyperventilating. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, aware he was shaking and wishing he wasn't. "All the damn blood," he murmured. "I saw his head. His _head_," his voice shook, "and it was staring at me, and even seeing him alive later, it doesn't change the fact that it was his severed head."

He raised his head to look at Martin, who was listening to him babble in the dark. "Does this – does everyone – ? Samson said his brother had a hard time too, but I don't know if he said that to make me feel better. Like Vlad saying I kept trying. God, you know he had to – to chase me out of there. You know I fell apart. I don't know what to do. If I stay it's horrible, but I can't leave either."

He was reluctant to make eye contact after so much babble. Even if Martin had said it was okay to talk, didn't mean Gunter had to have a mental breakdown. He reached directly for the wine bottle.

"_Non_," the Frenchman said firmly, and placed the bottle out of reach. "If you drink more tonight, you will regret it tomorrow. Tomorrow is Friday. Tomorrow night, you may get as drunk as you wish. Now."

He crossed the room and sat gingerly on the bed near Gunter – not too close, mindful of Americans' need for personal space – and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"You did not fall apart. You did what was needed to hold yourself together. It is a shock to everyone, when we arrive here. Some more than others. For Doctor Lamb, it was very hard. I am not certain that he could have adapted without his brother to help. And he was warned, what he was getting into. You were tricked."

Martin exhaled loudly, an exasperated noise.

"And that is heinous. This is not a life to send a man to, unprepared. But I meant what I said, before. You have the strength to do this. I can see it, even if you cannot. Samson, he will show you what to do in battle. Outside of battle, I will do the same, and make sure you learn to… to find your own strength."

The ghost of a smile curved his mouth.

"To make sure your soul does not get lost, yes?"

Gunter smiled too. "Yeah. I don't want to be like that." The wine was stronger than he'd thought, and it glowed happily in his stomach. He felt drowsy now, not just exhausted. He could probably sleep. "Thanks, Martin." He offered his hand to shake.

He did sleep, and mercifully remembered no dreams.

Samson had seen Martin go to visit the Medic, so he'd stayed away. He would still help this new doctor, who had shown surprising understanding in requesting a shaman. He must know something of the ways of the People, and that was unusual.

Teaching the new doctor would be like helping David, all over again. It would hurt. But it must be done.

Sasha had discovered how to get to the roof.

The main way, through the attic, was locked and blocked, but Sasha had climbed out of his window, then hooked a hand over the gable and hauled himself up. He was small enough and light enough to get away with it – the Heavy sure couldn't.

He wasn't the only one, either. He found cigarette butts in a beer bottle, so someone else liked to come up in here and smoke, or had. Maybe they'd found a way up through the attic, or they'd come up like he had. Either way, it meant he wasn't the only one up here, and that was good to know. And they didn't know _he_ knew.

He could also reach any of the mercs' dorm windows. If they left the window open, or at least unlocked, he could get into their rooms. Maybe this was how Spies got around. Of course, he'd have to learn who was in which room. And he didn't have a good reason to snoop in his teammates' rooms. That was a Spy job. He smirked.


	8. Chapter 8: Scathed

Gunter was still deep asleep when someone banged on the door for him to get up. His eyes and mouth felt dry, but he was rested, and the prospect of battle, while still bad, didn't loom like disaster on the horizon. He hoped he would face it better today.

Everyone seemed in a better mood at breakfast. Liam made Gunter drink a glass of reconstituted orange juice in addition to coffee.

Afterwards, Samson and Gunter went to the infirmary, where the heavy weapons man chided Gunter for not taking care of his equipment. Gunter accepted the rebuke; he'd have to do this in future, if he was staying here. Even if he got out, someone else would be using the Medigun.

"How long has this been going on?" he asked Samson, while cleaning the equipment. (The saw and syringe gun hadn't seen any use yet, but had been blood-spattered.)

Samson thought. "Vlad, Spy, David – " He paused. "…and myself have been here about four years. We did not all come in at the same time. The previous medic was older… Dr. Washburn, that was his name. The war took the life out of him. He trained David as best he could, and then retired." Samson sat lost in thought for a moment, then peered at Gunter. "Who did the uber surgery on you?"

"Red Medic," Gunter said. It wasn't a pleasant memory. "Then I did the others."

Samson nodded. So this Medic could do the job; he'd been overwhelmed by the violence. "I'll teach you," he said solemnly. "Now, where is the candy?"

"Eh?" Gunter couldn't remember – oh. "These?" He produced the belt pouch full of peppermints. "They were your brother's?"

"He used them to hide the smell of blood," Samson explained.

That made a lot of sense. Gunter would try that today. He also remembered the other things in the pouch, the tobacco bundles. He found them on the desk where he'd dumped them. "What are these for?"

Samson examined one, smelled it, but in the end shook his head. "I don't know. David – knew things about plants and medicines. But I don't know what he used these for." He handed it back to Gunter, who shrugged and tossed it back on the desk. He wasn't going to smoke that, certainly.

Doc was presentable, and present, in the ready room, listening to Samson's low, steady voice. Doc seemed mostly fine, which was good enough for Vlad. He caught Martin's eye and nodded his thanks for the Spy's work in keeping the Medic going.

Lonnie was quiet, no trouble from him today. Finn and Krieg looked actually eager for the upcoming fight. Finn had brought an ax, which he now freed from its leather blade-sheath to reveal a bright, sharp edge.

"You're still a Sniper, aren't you, Finn?" Vlad asked casually, first in English and then in Russian. The Sniper looked polite and slightly puzzled at both languages.

"Sixty seconds."

The peppermints helped quite a bit. He couldn't talk clearly while sucking on one, but today he tried to follow Samson's directions, and that gave him something to focus on.

The Reds began the day targeting him again, but the Blues were expecting it, and soon the deliberate targeting stopped, because the Reds had to concentrate on protecting the points.

It was still a grisly morning, and Gunter was shaken by lunchtime, but he was holding together. He was very glad of the break, and the chance to sit quietly and eat and drink. He still hated all the blood and gore, but he was trying to just not look at things. It wasn't easy.

"How's he doing?" Vlad asked quietly.

"He learns quickly. But he isn't like their Medic. He'll heal, but he doesn't want to attack." Samson devoured a sandwich. "Why did he join us?"

Vlad shook his head and popped open another beer. "They tricked him. He had no idea what he was signing up for."

Samson stared at Vlad, then shook his head in disgust.

Martin sat near Gunter at lunch, glad to note the Medic had gotten food and drink for himself, and didn't seem inclined to retreat into his own mind.

"So, why archaeology?" he ventured. Gunter gave him an odd look. Martin responded with a shrug and upturned hands. "I thought you might like a chance to talk, and think, about something other than this." He made a sweeping gesture to indicate their surroundings.

Gunter was glad of something else to occupy his thoughts. He started hesitantly, but warmed to the topic as he spoke, about the mysteries of the past, of teasing evidence from the soil, hunting for meaning behind what he found. He was speaking of how he enjoyed finding the story behind a dig site when Vlad gave the ten-minute warning.

"I went on a bit, didn't I?" Gunter said, smiling albeit a little embarrassed. He'd stopped eating or drinking while he talked, except when Martin reminded him to, and now he tried to finish what he could. "I know it's not everyone's cup of tea, but it's what I've wanted to do since I was still in short pants." And now he wasn't likely to get to do any, Gunter realized, since he was stuck here for two years as a false doctor, unless he could get out of his contract. That was sobering. Unless there was a likely site around here, and with all the fighting, the odds were against it.

"_Au contraire_," Martin said, "I very much enjoyed it. I had not suspected that our professions were so much the same – the finding of bits and pieces, determining what they mean, and putting them together to make a picture of the whole."

Martin blew out a stream of smoke and snubbed out his cigarette. He also enjoyed hearing someone talk about any topic they were so passionate about, though he could hardly say so while maintaining the aloof, half-bored facade that was especially necessary where he might be observed by Reds.

"What do you do on weekends?" Gunter asked. "You don't fight?"

"There is no fighting on the weekends. Every other weekend, there is a shuttle – the van by which you arrived here – to take members of one team into town, should they wish to go. They are responsible, then, for procuring their own accommodations overnight. Each team, therefore, is provided transportation once per month. Otherwise, one must provide one's own transportation, if one wishes to leave the base."

They walked leisurely back toward the ready room.

"One does mostly as one wishes on the weekend. Drinking," Martin acknowledged, "is popular, in the evenings. During the day, one pursues one's own interests. At times, someone sets up a reel to reel projector, and we watch one of the few non-instructional movies we have obtained. Dr. Lamb would drive to the lonely houses, where families try to scratch a living from this land, to give them medical care or food or other necessities.

"Whatever one does on the weekend, one should return in time for supper on Sunday evening. It is not a rule; more of a ritual. We come together as a team to break bread, and prepare ourselves for the week to come."

This was a small, closed community, Gunter thought. Like hippies, except not: they obviously had a job, they were earning money, but they were trapped here and couldn't really get out easily.

On the other hand, there were movies, meals, monthly trips to town… in some ways it wasn't much different from being on a dig. Sunday meals with the family, so to speak, regular trips for supplies and civilization. If not for the recurring deaths and horrible pain and blood _everywhere_, it could be tolerable.

"You said the team has to have its own transportation, for other times," he said, reflecting on Martin's words. "Lonnie has his truck, I saw it. The Reds must have something, too?" Martin nodded. "But Lonnie's the only one who can drive the truck, you said, and there's no way it could fit the whole team in it." Then he remembered something about how Dr. Lamb, the Scout, and the Sniper had all died – a flash flood. "You had another vehicle."

"That's right," Vlad said, loading his launcher. Everyone was preparing for the afternoon fight. "The Medic van. Both sides get one, I don't know why. I've got a request in for a new one. It'll probably arrive within the month."

Gunter felt vaguely disappointed. If he could have gotten away in the dead of night… of course, he couldn't do that in good faith… but at least he would have had the option. He was still trapped, and good.

"When's the next shuttle to town?" he asked.

"For us? Not for a month." Vlad checked over his team. "Krieg, you got enough to drink?" Pyros' complete body covering could overheat them quickly. "Nobody gets shore leave this weekend. Next weekend's the Reds. Teufort may not look like much, but after a month here, it's like the Big Apple."

"Doctor," Samson reminded. "Begin charging."

"Uh, yes." Gunter began charging the Heavy.

More of the same, but the afternoon was more tiring, and hotter. Gunter took advantage of the dispensers when he could, which wasn't often enough, but did his best.

But at last the end of the day was called, and the Blues still lost, but it wasn't as bad as the day before, Vlad said. He seemed to have access to the results.

This was a strange place and no two ways about it, Gunter thought wearily, removing his equipment in the infirmary. At least he had a private shower. Shower, care for equipment, eat, crawl into bed, try to forget loose body parts and chunks of bloody meat and getting killed repeatedly. Every time he closed his eyes he saw those things.

He looked at his equipment and decided he'd better maintain it first, since he was already a sweaty mess. He shrugged out of the coat and hung it up, worked on the equipment, and tried not to think of death.

He'd kept going all day, and he supposed he should be proud of that, but now he felt bone-weary, and shaky, and it was all coming back.

He didn't want to break down again. He could hold it together, get drunk with Martin, sleep the weekend away in a stupor.

Or he could figure out a way out of this madness. He had to think of something. He _would_. But nothing came to him right now that would let him go unscathed.

Unscathed.

He'd fallen off the second story of a building in the afternoon, and broken his back. Put like that, it sounded so simple. In practice it had been horrifying, feeling that, and realizing he couldn't move his legs, couldn't even feel them.

He'd forced himself to elbows, and tried to aim the medigun at his legs, but it was still too long. He couldn't feel them, couldn't walk. He was afraid but not panicky for some reason. No, the panic came when Red Medic found him, moments later, and grinned with sadistic glee at finding Gunter alone and helpless. He'd raised his saw – not the same as Gunter's bonesaw – and rushed at the Blue Medic.

Gunter had woken up in Respawn with fresh memories – could you call them that, when they'd just happened seconds before? – of pain blossoming across his face, and Red Medic's head exploding in blood and brains, and then the Respawn.

He'd hidden there, checking his legs over and over, his face, and losing his lunch again. His throat still hurt. (Or did it? Respawn fixed everything. Was this real, or phantom pain?) Samson had found him, pulled him to his feet, and helped him get back out on the battlefield.

…Dammit.

It was good he had some privacy.


	9. Chapter 9: Pigeons

Gunter made it to dinner, ate in silence, listened to Vlad's recapping of the battle without really hearing. It was when Samson nudged him that he looked up.

"Doc? You all right?"

Gunter seriously considered nodding, then shrugged.

Vlad leaned back and looked at him for a long moment. "This weekend we'll get everyone up to speed on how life goes around here," he said. "We'll go over it in the morning. You're on your own for the night."

Watching Gunter eat his supper – hollow-eyed, mechanical – Martin felt cruel. Cruel for even trying to bring the man up to speed in the first place, for forcing him onto the battlefield, for trying to keep him fit enough to keep going back. Would it have been kinder let the man fail, let him face the consequences of a broken contract before he even had an Über device, before he'd seen the horrors of the surgery and the battlefield firsthand? Kinder to let him retreat into psychosis after that first morning?

Never mind. It would surely be crueler, now, to let him self-destruct. Especially since he could see that the man was strong enough to handle this, once he got accustomed to seeing the violence each day. And the team truly needed him.

Martin had helped a much younger and more fragile person cope with the aftermath of violence and betrayal before. He would not fail this man, now.

"This weekend we'll get everyone up to speed on how life goes around here," Vlad said. "We'll go over it in the morning. You're on your own for the night."

Martin paused long enough to murmur a few words to Samson and Vlad. Liam might come up of his own accord, which was fine; but Lonnie seldom came to the roof on Fridays. He disapproved of the smoking and the drinking both. Tonight, that would be for the best. Finn, Krieg, and Sasha all seemed to be adapting well enough, they could be left to their own devices surely.

(Martin made a mental note to ensure his room was secure. If anyone got bored and curious, it would not do to have his own room invaded.)

Gunter was Martin's main concern, and not only because Vlad had put him in charge of getting the man ready for battle in the first place. After a quick stop to grab a few things from his room, he grabbed the doctor's attention and led him through the passage in the attic that lead to the flattest part of the roof.

None of them had been here for a while – with so many of the team gone, and Samson stuck in some kind of near-catatonia, none of the rest of them had had the heart to spend time here, where they could see off into the distance, under the starry desert sky.

Gunter wondered dully why Martin had taken him to the roof. So he could fall off again? Maybe if he did it often enough, he'd learn to like it?

He sat heavily on the roof, drew up his knees and hugged them. When he looked out, he could see across the valley, and the dark sky full of stars. The moon wasn't up, and the stars and the base were the only source of light here.

"I wonder whether we could find a place here for you to dig," Martin said after taking the first drag on his cigarette. "One of the old mine shafts, perhaps? The gravel pits? They're abandoned now, and perhaps there might be something worth finding, if you dug from the sides of a pit."

Gunter didn't bother to reply. You couldn't dig just anywhere. His own specialty was Indian cultures, and the likelihood of a good site around this place was probably nil.

But it helped get his mind out of the black pit it kept falling into. Dark shapes obscured the stars briefly: bats on the wing. It was quiet here, with only breezes and distant sounds, either insects or maybe the bats, or his own team or the Reds –

He buried his head in his arms. He'd thought he could do this, but it was worse the second time. He had to get out, even if it meant a black mark. Even if it meant going home in defeat. He wouldn't be killed at home.

Sasha had waited for darkness. He'd planned _even better_ this time, which wasn't hard because the first time he hadn't planned at all. He wore a dark gray sweater and black pants and socks, so he'd be harder to see. What the hell else was he going to do on a Friday night, cooped up in this place? No movies, no TV, nowhere to go, no girls, nothing to do.

He didn't know where most of the others went, but that was something to learn, wasn't it? So he'd search around quietly in the dark. Tomorrow he'd have all day to poke around legally, but he was bored _now_, because this place was boring as shit when they weren't fighting.

Sasha eased out of his window and listened. No noise yet. He did a chin-up on the gable, being careful now that he knew at least one person would go up to the roof, and peeked over. In the near-blackness, it looked like maybe some dark shapes against the sky? Maybe? Wait, that definitely sounded like someone talking, but too quietly for Sasha to catch it.

He dropped back to his windowsill. No way he wanted to take the roof right now. But – he looked down the line of windows – if the guys were on the roof, they weren't in their rooms, were they?

"I expect I am displaying my own ignorance, to make such a suggestion," Martin continued softly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke into the dark. "But if you came here believing there was a site here, perhaps that means one could exist in such a place, no? Dry and rocky?"

The silence stretched between them, until Martin broke it again, smoothly.

"I thought you would like to sit up here for a while. There is usually a breeze in the evening, and it is quiet. Inside, there is of course no breeze, and more noise."

Gunter nodded. He realized he wanted to think of anything else, and conversation with Martin would allow that. He made himself raise his head and take the offered drink. "You can see a long way," he said, knowing it was banal, but it was all he could think of. "I didn't know what kind of site it would be here. Usually there's arrowheads or pottery or maybe an old stone foundation, or a cliff dwelling… something to indicate people were there."

He drank.

"I was blind," he said. "I should have asked more. But I needed a job, and I wanted one so bad that I should have asked more than I did. I've got experience, I've got my doctorate. But there's only so many positions or funding available. So I thought this was a great opportunity. I could do my work, get paid for it… and I didn't ask a lot of questions. Stupid."

He drank some more.

"So now I'm here, all nice and legal, and it's my own damn fault. And all the blood… I don't know how you do it. I fell today."

Martin said nothing, and Gunter became aware of someone nearby. He turned and saw a big shape in the darkness: probably Samson. The man was so quiet.

Samson sat on Gunter's free side. Nobody spoke for a while.

"I fell, and I couldn't move," Gunter continued. He didn't care if Samson heard it. "I broke my back… and the other Medic came at me, like he couldn't wait to carve me up." His hands unconsciously went to his face. "I should've never let him touch me. The Uber device. He's a madman. I think they all are."

Sasha eased his way along the side of the building. He was light enough to hang from the gable and anything his fingers and toes could grab onto. He'd ditched the socks for better sense of his feet, and had made his way past two windows. One had light but the wooden blinds were closed, so he got past that as fast as he could. The other was locked.

He had one more window, and if this one was locked he'd have to turn around and go back. Which sounded pretty good right now; his arms ached with the effort. But he'd try this window first, because he didn't want to come back this way a second time.

There was another little stretch of silence.

"You said, just after you arrived, that you were not a sociologist, but an archeologist." Martin offered the bottle to Samson, but did not partake, himself. "I thought it a shame. A sociologist might learn many interesting things about a group of men in such circumstances. Forever at war, but on regular hours, never dying – at least, not staying dead – the same eighteen men in a closed community for months on end. Little contact with the world outside."

Martin exhaled an angry stream of smoke.

"Small wonder some are madmen. Some come here because they are madmen, because this is a place where they can be mad without reprisal. Red Medic is one such, I believe. I also avoid my own counterpart. But no, I do not believe all of them are madmen. Most of them, like most of us, come here for reasons of their own, and stay for reasons of their own, and manage to stay as sane as anyone in this cruel world."

He stubbed his cigarette out on the rugged metal roof, and dropped the butt in the beer bottle someone had left here for the purpose.

Gunter knew the whole setup smelled fishy – a war where nobody died, that ran on banker's hours, with people from all over the world but isolated in one place. And yet, here he was. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it himself.

Samson waved off the bottle Martin offered.

Maybe Martin was right. The Spy didn't seem crazy. Samson had retreated from the world, for several days… like how Gunter felt now. Maybe some of them had made a mistake.

"I came," Samson said, "because it was a place I could be."

Gunter turned to look at him in the darkness.

"I was in the Army," Samson said. "I can be very angry. It can make life difficult when I get angry. Even in the Army. Here, I can do it safely, because nobody is hurt for long. It lets me be angry, then be my true self, because the anger is released."

Nobody spoke for a bit. Gunter thought about Samson's words. That… made sense for him to be here, then, if Samson was a violent man. He could let out those urges and yet at the end of the day, everyone was still alive. Though whoever was on the receiving end of those urges probably wished him dead.

"David," and Samson sighed, "I told him about the money I was earning here. I sent it home to him, to use for our village. He wanted to know more. I warned him it could be a bad place for a doctor. He came anyway. He had trouble, just as you do. He was not a madman. He did this because we sent the money home to help our family and our neighbors. Thanks to this job, they were better off."

Gunter now felt guilty. It wasn't like he had any grandiose plans for the money; he just wanted a good job doing what he loved, and to show his parents that archaeology was a real career.

"Liam has nowhere else to go. He's wanted in England for bombing. He, like David and I, is of two worlds, and not truly at home in either. Lonnie is afraid of the world outside. The new men… I do not know."

"And Vlad?" Gunter asked, interested despite himself.

Martin stirred. "Perhaps you should ask him that yourself."

So, Gunter thought, why am I here? Besides being hoodwinked into a job. I came here looking for work. I'm almost out of money and I have debts to pay. The money I could earn here is still good; it's just violently earned. Nobody else seems to have a problem with who killed who, at the end of each day. No more than someone might be bothered by getting cut off on the road, or finding out nobody made a fresh pot of coffee.

But can I do this? He squeezed his eyes shut. Red Medic, coming at him with a bloody saw. The Uber surgery. The… most of this was about Red Medic, wasn't it? If he were honest, that was the man who terrified him the most here. Not his own team. Not even most of the other team, despite the high number of madman wearing red. Red Medic. Did the man have a name? It didn't matter. It was difficult dealing with the blood, but the mad doctor was terrifying.

Gunter unfolded a little and tried to work out the kinks in his arms and legs. If he could stay out of Red Medic's way, maybe he could… no. He couldn't. Not in an enclosed area, not with so few people. But if he couldn't avoid the madman, what could he do?

And Red Medic wasn't the only one gunning for him. That first day, the Red Sniper had shot at him repeatedly. The Red Heavy had come after him. He knew now that they'd been targeting him – like Martin said, attacking, like chickens (that was an odd concept), trying to peck him to death.

The bad part was that it was working. He didn't want to stay here. But until he could get out, he had to deal with it.

Gunter took a deep breath, started to speak, changed his mind. He was still weary, and would love nothing more than to go to sleep and wake up to discover this was all a horrible nightmare. But this was his new reality.

The window had been closed, but unlocked. Sasha gratefully sat on the windowsill with his feet hanging inside the room. Getting here had sucked, and he still had to get back to his own room. But he'd proved he could do it! Good thing the room was empty.

His eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, but this room looked pretty empty, like someone was just using it as a hotel room. Sasha wondered whose it was. Nothing was set out, no pictures or personal stuff or nothin', which meant it wasn't one of the veterans. Obviously it wasn't his room. That left Doc, Krieg or Finn, and it could be any one of them.

Sasha slipped into the room and tiptoed toward the door. Locked. At least the guy had some sense.

The Scout heard something fly into the room. Holy shit, what was that? He looked around, nervous – animals could bite or somethin' – and saw a fluttering of wings near the nightstand. "Aw, shit," he muttered. How was he going to get a bird out of a room?

"Doctor," Samson said at last, "Vlad tells me you were tricked into this job."

"That's correct."

"You didn't know what job you signed up for."

Gunter nodded, then said, "Yes."

"But now you know. And it will get easier," Martin said.

It could hardly get worse, Gunter thought. But wasn't that a good thing? The bottom of the pit means there's nowhere to go but up. Or to get stuck at the bottom.

"Even those who know ahead of time often do not immediately adjust," Martin said, the smoke from his exhalation looking white in the dark. "If you had, then you might indeed be mad. But you are not. And you will overcome this and be stronger for it."

That made sense too. Gunter took the cigarette Martin offered him.

He would still try to get out. He had to. But he could… he could get through this until then. He could avoid or defend against Red Medic. Keep sucking on peppermints. Nobody was really dying, and his team were normal people, mostly.

If only there weren't so much blood and body parts…

"I'll try," he said at last. A thought came to him as he smoked. "It must be hell on the Reds to have him for their doctor."

Now he took the liquor Martin offered. It burned, and that was fine. He was still alive, wasn't he? And it was the weekend… no killing for two days. Two days, and if he kept busy, that would help. Stay too busy to think.

Sasha despaired of getting the dumb bird out of the room. It wouldn't leave, and he couldn't make noise or he'd get caught. Plus he'd wasted so much time on the beast that he hadn't done any snooping – _investigating_ – and he knew he had to keep investigations short.

The hell with it. Sasha exited the window and closed it almost all the way. Whoever lived here might think the wind had blown it open, or they hadn't closed it properly. That would explain the stupid bird if it was still here when they got back. Probably as soon as Sasha was gone it would fly out on its own.

He didn't like the slow crawl back, either. Someone was definitely on the roof, so he had to take it extra-careful, and that meant he couldn't be fast. It drove him nuts.

By the time he returned to his own room, his limbs ached and he just wanted a drink and to kick back. This spy shit was _hard_.


	10. Chp 10: Not the Worst Thing in the World

Gunter woke and wasn't sure where he was. Light came in through the window, and there was… something walking on him.

Fears of rats made him bolt upright, looking around wildly. The thing walking on him turned out to be a bird, which flew to the foot of the bed, then looked at him reproachfully, if a bird could.

Gunter looked at the bird, and the headache caught up with him, along with vague memories of drinking on the roof, and bad dreams that woke him up during the night. And now there was… a dove. One of those little native doves that hung around the infirmary.

"You the same one as before?" he asked out loud, feeling very foolish talking to a bird. "How'd you get in here?" He squinted at the light; the window was a little open. "Forced the window?" The dove didn't laugh, but it wasn't a good joke. It cocked its head, stared at him with those beady black eyes, and hopped onto the blanket, then walked up to him.

"You're a bold thing," Gunter sighed. "You want me to get up?"

The dove made it to his hand, which rested on top of the blanket, and waited.

"I don't know what you want," Gunter said. "If you want Dr. Lamb, he's gone. It's just me."

It was… Saturday. He had a couple days to figure out how to get out of here.

"Hay, Doc!" Liam's voice came from behind the door. "Get yerself up and out here!"

"All right, all right," Gunter said. "Sorry, bird." He got out of bed – slept in his clothes again – had to stop doing that. The dove fluttered to perch on the alarm clock. "Did you have a name? I wonder if anyone knows. I don't even know if you're a girl or a boy." Gunter had no experience with pets or dealing with animals, and didn't know if he should chase the dove away, feed it, talk to it – what did people do with pets, anyway?

This one hung around for a while, but flew out the window while he freshened up. That was all he could do, freshen up; he needed spare clothing, and they wouldn't go into town anytime soon. Maybe they had some spares, or a way to order some. Otherwise he was going to smell pretty gamey in a few days, even with a daily shower.

After breakfast, Vlad set them to learning how life really went around BLU base.

Everyone had to do a week's worth of cooking, morning and night, and a week's worth of cleaning the dishes afterward. This required planning menus and making a grocery list, which was then added to the supply runs. Liam would run an impromptu class for the newcomers on how to do this, later in the day.

Laundry was generally infrequent, but it was polite to make sure nobody else had plans for the laundry machines at the same time. All the mercs except Gunter had off-duty clothes and something to wear for weekends into town, and there were two washers and dryers.

How to make supply requests. Equipment requests. Any requests at all for anything that had to be shipped in.

Then it was out into the yard for more practice before the heat of the day got too powerful. Gunter worked with almost every member of the team that morning; only the Engineer, Spy and Sniper were left out. In turn the other newcomers were also taught how to work with their new teammates.

They broke for lunch, and Vlad said they'd do some more in the evening. Gunter gladly hung up his equipment and changed out of the coat and gloves. Training still wasn't so bad, because there was no blood, no killing. Vlad didn't want them attacking each other, just learning how to communicate and move and work together. Gunter could handle that. It was much easier for him to pay attention like this, and by lunchtime, he thought he was starting to get the hang of it. Maybe, he thought, he could get to a state where it was automatic, and he wouldn't be distracted by gore. To that end, he tried hard to remember the directions, where things were, what he was supposed to do.

He sought out Martin and Samson during lunch. "About last night – "

Samson waved it off. "De nada."

That's right, Samson did speak Mexican Spanish. "Gracias por la ayuda. Me alegro de que tu alma ha regresado." [Thank you for the help. I'm glad your soul has returned.]

Samson laughed, a short hearty bark of a noise. "Estoy feliz de pagar la deuda." [I'm happy to repay the debt.]

Gunter smiled, grateful for the friendship. This was better. If he just didn't have to face the violence…

He ate several bites of sandwich before continuing. "I thought, after this, I'd look at the infirmary. Are either of you familiar with it?" Martin had sure been in there often enough.

Samson shrugged. "David was the doctor. I might help him move things, but I didn't trespass on his office, and he didn't tell me how to fight."

Martin shrugged. "As familiar as anyone who is not a Medic, I suppose. Dr. Lamb did not like anyone to rummage about, and I tried to respect that." Mostly, he had.

"Where'd you get off to last night, anyway?" Krieg said to the Scout. "I thought you might want to join the rest of us – Liam was going to set up a projector so we could watch a movie – but you weren't in your room, and I couldn't find you anywhere else, either."

"Oh yeah?" Sasha knew he'd have to be more careful in future. "I went out for a run."

"In the dark?"

"I was careful." Good point, though. He had to make a better alibi next time. "We got movies? Wish I'd known."

Krieg eyed Sasha curiously. The boy was clearly hiding something, and that was unexpected. He would figure it out sooner or later, though.

"He shrugged. "Maybe tonight we can round up a few of the others, too. Liam says it's a pain to set up the projector and Lonnie had something else to do, and most everyone had disappeared. Didn't seem worthwhile for just a couple of us. But it would be good to have some entertainment, I think. All work and no play, and so on."

The infirmary appeared well-stocked despite the medigun. Perhaps the supplies were for visitors, or if they left the base. Gunter realized he'd have to learn how to use these if he stayed, and that meant practice. He hadn't been in a health class since high school.

There was the equipment, both for the field and a fair amount of real, medical equipment, all neat, clean and somehow threatening. That was ridiculous, he told himself. They were just tools and mysterious equipment of unknown purpose. He still never wanted to perform surgery, not when they had the miraculous medigun, but Dr. Lamb had been ready for it, and maybe he had a reason for that.

There was a locked file cabinet and a locked desk. The heavy wooden desk looked like it had survived a firefight itself. It was old and near-black with age and must weigh a couple of Samsons. Damage marks scored the surface in places, some of them recent.

Vlad had lent him a spare set of keys and said he'd have Lonnie look at making keys for Gunter.

Gunter opened the file cabinet first. Medical histories, blank forms, paperwork; it looked deadly dull. The desk held a brown paper bag of tobacco wads, so Gunter put the ones from before with their fellows. There was a huge bag of peppermints in a bottom drawer, a typesetter's tray of dried herbs and plant parts, all marked in small crabbed ink that Gunter couldn't immediately read, and a few books. One was a Spanish Bible. Two more were a diary or journal in two volumes. Gunter didn't want to read someone else's diary, but maybe Samson would want it. He locked everything back up for the time being.

There was a bookcase with more empty space than books, but Gunter was heartened to see a few basic first-aid guides, plus other medical texts he'd probably use to fight insomnia. No wonder they were expecting a medical doctor; they'd had one for four years, and probably one before that. Gunter wondered again how long this battle had gone on. There was a photo album sandwiched between two texts, but Gunter had no time to look at present, because the door opened. Vlad stuck his head in. "Home economics class, Doc! It'll be your week soon enough!"

Liam and Vlad's crash course was eye-opening. This didn't feel like the kind of thing paid killers were known for, and yet every one of them would have to do this. Plan meals for 10 men? (It made the math easier, and they all ate like it was going out of style.) And it wasn't just scaling up; there were real questions about how fast something could be made, how nutritious, with the least amount of work. Taste was optional but "tasty" was preferred.

Bread was shipped in weekly without needing a request, but canned goods, fresh food, and staples needed a weekly shopping list, given to Vlad in advance so he had time to order them. Gunter realized the fare was likely to get monotonous by the end of the week, but how many different meals could you put together in an hour or less, anyway?

Vlad said Fridays were meatless and would brook no argument about it. Fish or eggs were fine. Okay, so maybe there was a little variety, but were there really that many Catholics on the team?

Vlad wanted the new folks to have menu drafts (including supply lists) by Sunday morning, so they could be reviewed and probably changed. Gunter had no idea what he could cook. Hard-boiled eggs, coffee and toast, sure, and canned beans, but full meals? That didn't come out of a can? Being a single student, he was used to paying for meals, not making them.

Finn had a question (Vlad and Sasha had been translating to Russian). What about wild game? Yes, anything he could hunt, skin and butcher was fine.

Dr. Lamb had kept a garden going for four years, and Lonnie had been maintaining it. That provided much-needed fresh vegetables and fruit depending on the season. While Dr. Lamb had been handling it, Vlad now wanted to add it to the duty roster so Lonnie wouldn't be stuck with both that and maintenance.

"Why don't you do it?" Sasha asked cheekily.

"Because I'm in charge and I have enough to do. Next up: dishwashing duty!"

To be fair, Vlad was on the schedule for that, and the cooking, and the cleaning. Every week, each man had some different chore to do: cooking, dishwashing, cleaning, gardening, laundry, maintenance… Gunter thought it seemed designed to keep them busy as well as self-sufficient. A free weekend or a trip to town would be a holiday in comparison. Trips could be withheld as punishments, too. Shirkers would find themselves stuck in this place while everyone else went to have fun and see the girls.

_I've joined the Army,_ Gunter thought, _except no pushups, no shaved heads, and I have a private bathroom._

After that, back to training for two hours. Gunter was encouraged to use his weapons, but he was reluctant to. First, he felt he would do better healing the team, though he knew that would hardly protect him against Red Medic. But the second reason was because the Medic weapons were no good.

The syringe gun was clunky, and Gunter couldn't hit anything with it no matter how hard he aimed. Maybe its sights were off, but if he tried to hit anything smaller than a barn, he missed, and that was frustrating as hell.

The bonesaw wasn't intuitive. You couldn't stab with it, it was a slashing weapon. Who used a saw in combat anyway? Gunter got the symbolism as a doctor's tool, but still. "Could I use something else?"

"Like what?"

"Red Medic has a different saw." Definitely not a bonesaw, more like a single-edged knife.

Vlad nodded. "Not sure where he got it, but it seems to be allowed. Why? Got something in mind?"

Gunter shrugged. "Not yet. But there can be substitutions?"

Now it was Vlad's turn to shrug. "Hell, I'm already letting Finn carry around that ax. Let me know what you come up with." It wasn't a yes, but it certainly wasn't a no, either.

This was supposed to be their weekend, their days off, but instead it was training and organization and duty rosters and more.

"This is women's work," Krieg grumbled once, during the kitchen lesson. The room went suddenly quiet, crackling with tension. Even Finn, who probably hadn't understood the words even if he'd heard them, stared.

"You see any women here, cupcake?" The soldier's voice sounded amiable and cheerful, but Krieg could hear the menace under the surface.

Krieg made a show of cutting his eyes around the room, to cover his mistake. "None at all," he admitted.

"Right." Vlad looked at all of them, but his firm gaze rested longest on Krieg. "We do for ourselves, here. It takes all of us to keep this place running smoothly, and I will not tolerate shirkers."

Krieg nodded. He knew when he was beaten. "Understood."

They returned to the lesson, and Krieg made a show now of being a willing, even eager, pupil. He should have kept quiet and tried to barter the chore away later, or displayed such ineptitude at cooking that he had to be reassigned for the good of the team; but he hadn't thought. Now, it would be a matter of pride, he would have to make it a matter of pride, to serve his weeks cooking and serve them well, or he would never be out of the shadow of suspicion that he was not there to serve the team.

Finn fretted about feeding these people. In the forests, he could have fed them easily, given enough time to do so. The forests had game, the rivers and lakes teemed with fish, and in warmer weather he could collect berries and mushrooms. You could even eat some of the tree bark if there was truly nothing else. He'd done it, during the hard times.

But this place was barren: not even streams for water, no trees, no bushes worth the name. How could he find food in this place?

He was well aware of canned food; it had its uses. And bread, and porridge. But for nine men? The _soldat_ was right, it would take planning in this hostile land.

The German complained of something that nobody bothered to explain to Finn, but the soldat was displeased.

Gunter was worried. Cooking for ten? He privately agreed with Krieg, but he'd had the sense to keep his mouth shut. How had Liam turned out those meals? And gardening? Gunter didn't know a weed from a lettuce.

Sasha didn't look too concerned. "My ma had to cook for all of us," he bragged, "Me an' seven brothers an' my dad an' sometimes aunts an' uncles an' cousins. I know all about this."

"Then you can go the week after Samson," Vlad said amiably. "His week starts tomorrow. I'm looking forward to see what you put on the table."

Sasha looked startled as the men laughed. Gunter laughed too, in relief. He was learning: don't volunteer, don't stand out. And now he had at least two weeks to learn. Maybe he would even be out of here by then, but in case he wasn't, he'd better figure something out. Maybe he could see what Sasha and Samson did. Martin probably put together those super-fancy French dishes out of frogs' legs and champagne.

"You're all dismissed," Vlad finished. "We'll have a movie tonight at 8 o'clock in the common room."

After the lesson, Finn told the soldier by a mix of words and signs that he would explore outside. The Sniper already had his weapons and extra water (that had been made very clear to him upon his arrival, always take water). Soldat made the Russian boy go with him, in case he needed to talk to anyone else. Neither party was happy about it. Finn reluctantly decided he needed to learn at least some English.

Gunter expected disapproval from Martin about his lack of cooking knowledge, and he wasn't disappointed. "I never had to learn," he explained.

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. "How is it, that men in this country can grow up never knowing how to prepare a proper meal?" he inquired of the heavens, or perhaps only the plaster of the ceiling. "And how do the women allow it?" He returned his gaze to Gunter.

"Very well, then. What is it you say you can cook? Tea, toast, eggs, and beans from cans? Have you ever learned to chop vegetables? Cook meat to doneness, without burning it? Combine spices for flavor? No? How have you lived so long, and stayed so healthy, not living with your mama? Never mind, I am not sure I wish to know."

He sighed, with just a touch of dramatic flair to let Gunter know he was teasing. "I suppose I had best teach you. It will be easiest, I think, if I take your first week of cooking – make no mistake, you will take my next one, in exchange! I do not wish to feed this crowd for two weeks in the same month – and you will serve as my sous chef in that week. That way, you can learn the basic tasks, and no one will need to fight with a belly full of charcoal."

Martin had a way of making Gunter embarrassed about not having a skill he'd never needed before. Still, he could probably learn, with Martin teaching him. "Thanks," he said, though he wasn't looking forward to two weeks of cooking for the team, either, but what could he do? They'd probably riot if he served canned beans and eggs twenty-eight times in a row.

Dinner was light, inside the base, but Finn and Sasha missed it. They did make it back in time for the movie, but Sasha complained nonstop until Finn got tired of it and slapped the boy on the back of the head.

There was no game here, no food. They were wholly dependent on the supply trucks and the garden. Even the doves that nested here were only enough to provide one meal, if Finn decided to shoot them.

The movie was from the previous year, but as Liam explained, Teufort was well off the beaten path and any movie was worth watching when you'd gone long enough.

"Like women," he said wistfully.

"Were there ever servants here?" Gunter asked him. "Janitors, cooks, things like that?"

"Na' as long as I've been here, mate," Liam said. "An' if they'd had women, you know how it would have turned out. No, I think they've always made us live on our own."

Lonnie made enormous bowls of popcorn, with melted butter and salt, and there was plenty of beer to wash it down. Gunter wondered if BLU hijacked a beer truck every week, or if the local brewery had a deal to deliver massive quantities of cheap alcohol to both sides.

The Good, The Bad and The Ugly was new for some of them, and even Finn didn't need much translation. The mercs were caught up in the story of betrayals, treasure hunting and Civil War violence. Even Gunter, who wondered why it didn't bother him so much to see the blood on the screen. Because it was just a movie? Because he knew it was fake? Or because he'd seen a lot worse in the past two days? Though the beating scene in the prison camp still made him wince. He hoped nobody noticed. It wasn't like he had to leave the room.


	11. Chapter 11: Careful What You Pack

Sasha, for his part, turned in his list on Sunday morning to Vlad at breakfast, with very "told you so" body language.

"What's this?" Vlad looked over it.

Samson's week featured strange breakfast food for the other new mercs, but familiar to Gunter: lots of tortillas, salsa, chorizo, potatoes, and eggs scrambled with chilies. Poor Finn looked like he'd almost rather go hungry. No wonder he was so lanky.

"My grocery list. Tolja I knew what I was doin'. An' make sure that's real Italian spaghetti noodles when you order! I don't want none of that French stuff. Am I right, Spook? Even you French use Italian spaghetti noodles." He gave Martin a knowing look.

Martin raised an eyebrow at Sasha. "Indeed," he said. It was neither an affirmation nor a contradiction.

Gunter had never heard of French spaghetti noodles. He'd eaten spaghetti a couple of times in college, but it was purely Italian food, wasn't it?

Oh, damn. He was supposed to have put together his own shopping list. He'd just gone right to bed after the movie. His room had felt stuffy, so he'd opened the window, and the dove had flown in. Maybe Dr. Lamb had had this dove as a pet. It had settled onto the end table for the night. It was kind of nice, actually, having it there.

But, bringing himself back to reality, he'd have to get Martin's help on what he was supposed to cook. He wondered if Finn or Krieg had put anything together either.

After breakfast, Martin took Gunter aside briefly. "I have arranged it with Vlad, as we discussed, that you and I shall trade weeks. We will work together to determine what ingredients you will require, once I determine what sort of foods you can best succeed at cooking." He nodded, as if that settled the matter.

So be it, then. He'd have to learn how to cook. He could hear his mother's voice now: a real doctor could afford a cook and a housekeeper at the very least. But this was 1968, not 1912, and who kept servants these days?

It didn't matter, anyway. He'd written to them as soon as he had this job, before he'd come out here on that train, telling them how he'd been hired for good wages doing archaeological work. He wasn't going to tell them what had changed, not yet, not when he didn't know if he would even still be here in two weeks' time.

Finn did know what he should ask for, but had to give it verbally, so he would wait until after the horribly spicy breakfast. First the Demoman and now the Heavy were trying to poison everyone with this fiery food. They would thank him when it was his week.

Sunday was an actual day of rest. Those who wanted some quiet time for religious reasons could have it; otherwise, they were on their own, for real this time. Sasha asked Gunter if he was up for a game of catch, and Gunter agreed as the morning wasn't hot yet. Some of the others joined in, and Gunter found himself having a good time. Sasha got his bat and a ball, and places were designated as bases, and the scout, Gunter, Liam and Finn formed two two-man teams. Lonnie officiated by the dispenser, keeping track of the score and the "ghost men" on base. All four players stripped to undershirts or skins as they played, keeping cool, and in Gunter's case avoiding dirtying his second shirt. They ribbed each other and laughed and the comradeship was real, even if three of them were new, and Finn understood just the basics (hit the ball with the stick, run here).

"You gotta good swing, Doc," Sasha said when they broke for beer. "You can really hit 'em."

"Thanks." Gunter knocked back half the beer. "Probably from swinging a pickax for so long."

"A pickax?" Lonnie grunted. "What, you was on a chain gang?" From anyone else it would've been said in fun.

Gunter refused to turn and face the Engineer. "For my work," he said, not wanting to give the old man anything else to target.

Sasha didn't want the good mood to break up because Lonnie was being an ass. "I should give you my bat," he grinned at Gunter. "Let you be the Scout tomorrow."

"You'd snap like a twig if you had to carry everything I do," Gunter shot back, also grinning. But he thought: why not a bat? It was more straightforward than the saw. Swung forehand or backhand, it would hurt whoever it hit. A bat was really just an evenly sized club.

No, there was another option. The pick. He'd brought it with him, because it was his and he was familiar with it and it was a useful tool on most sites. But as a weapon?

Gunter fetched his pick and took it to the practice area, not used much except when someone wanted to let off steam or try out a new or unfamiliar weapon. Wooden targets shaped like people were arrayed about the range. None of them were specific, but some of them did seem to be sort of Heavy-sized and others smaller like a Scout or an Engineer.

Gunter's first few swings were clumsy and self-conscious. But he kept trying, and his ease with the pick returned. He could indeed get a good swing with it. His natural swing was, of course, vertically, like breaking up the ground, but with a little trial and error he could get a good sideways attack as well.

Could he attack another person with it? He didn't know. But it was more comfortable in his hand than the saw had been, and he'd feel better with it at his side. He'd ask Vlad to approve the change. Maybe he would even use it sometime in battle.

Vlad was busy with the supply trucks that afternoon and had no time to talk to Gunter about anything. It appeared the Soldier didn't give a full day of rest to himself. He was double-checking the incoming supplies against packing lists, and the mercs drifted in to help move boxes as they were cleared. That explained why the supply rooms were so close to the loading docks, too.

Gunter did his part – they all did – moving boxes and crates and supplies as directed. Ammunition, iron, steel, nails, tools; food fresh, frozen and canned; clothing, soap and towels; toilet paper, cleaning supplies, light bulbs; forms, pens, pencils; wood for boards or maybe furniture or handles; shoes and boots and replacement uniforms; it was amazing how much was needed to keep a nine-man base operational.

And why? To fight endlessly over a gravel pit? Wouldn't they be better served to just buy off the other side? It had to be cheaper than the years of battle.

When everything was verified, Vlad signed off on the shipment, and the trucks lumbered away. Gunter watched them go from the loading dock. He could hardly sneak a ride on one, not in full view of the team.

"Mail call," Vlad said from somewhere behind him. Gunter didn't think he'd have any letters yet, but he rejoined the group anyway.

Liam had a fat envelope with plenty of stamps on it.

Lonnie had a package, a long box from a mail-order company.

Vlad had a few letters, some of which were on BLU stationery, but at least one looked hand-addressed.

Sasha, surprisingly, already had a small envelope from his mother. He must have been here just long enough, Gunter guessed, and his mother was probably worried about him.

An issue of a Spanish-language magazine that had probably been for David Lamb, but which Samson now accepted.

Nothing for Gunter (as he expected), Krieg (who'd arrived the same time as Gunter), or Finn (who was possibly illiterate).

"Aaaaand here's Martin's weekly mash note," Vlad joked, holding out the delicately addressed envelope in mock ceremony.

"_Mille fois mercí!_ Why, thank you, Soldier, sir," the spy replied with the same mock-gravity; but his face held the hint of a very pleased smile as he tucked the letter in the pocket inside his suit jacket.

"Aw, hey!" Sasha exclaimed over the letter he'd already torn free from its envelope. "Ma says my sister-in-law, that's my fifth brother's wife, ya know? She finally had her baby, on the day right after I left! I'm an uncle again." He beamed at them all, as if it were his own achievement. "It's a girl, so I'm gonna have to help protect her an' stuff, too, Ma's been wantin' a granddaughter something fierce, an' – oh no!" He looked stricken. "I gotta send 'em a gift! Somethin' to say congratulations, like! Now how'm I gonna do that?"

"You can credit purchases to your next paycheck," Vlad said. "It'll be deducted when you get paid. We have some catalogs to order from, or you can wait until the next trip to town and buy something and mail it then."

Buy things on credit against his paycheck? That sounded like the old company-town scrip Gunter had read about in history class. Potentially dangerous, too, since you could easily end up in debt to BLU for your purchases.

That said, Gunter really needed more than two sets of clothes, because together they didn't make a small load in the laundry, and he didn't want to be the stinky guy.

"Vlad?" he asked, getting Vlad's attention. "About that – what if something's already in our stores?"

"You can't just go in and take things, but you could purchase 'em from here. Why, what do you need?"

"Socks," Gunter said, which got a laugh, and was true, too.

"Okay, Doc, let's see if anything's in your size."

Socks, underwear, undershirts, and T-shirts were available in a variety of sizes, so Gunter grabbed a week's worth of everything, even if it meant a deduction. He couldn't wait a month to buy clothes in town.

Next up were shirts and pants. There were company-color button-down shirts, and darker blue pants, both of which looked a lot like the ones in his uniform closet. So you could easily replace uniform items that got damaged beyond repair, he guessed. He didn't know how badly he wanted to wear his uniform all the time, but that could be an option too. He hemmed and hawed and finally chose the three sets of shirts and pants that actually fit him. At least now he'd get most of the way through a week.

Then, because in for a penny, in for a pound, a pair of comfortable-looking loose shorts, in case he had to wash absolutely everything at once.

Vlad documented everything. "We have to know what's being used, not just to charge you for it, but because now I need to replace what's in stores. You really didn't bring much with you, did you?"

"I was told clothing would be provided, which it was," Gunter said, balancing everything in his arms. "But that was just the uniforms."

"Yeah, you're not the first person caught like that," Vlad commiserated. "But now you're set. You need razors or shaving cream or anything like that, we have replacements."

The stores were a very full room. They could probably go a week without resupply; then again, it was only an hour's drive to town, and even walking wouldn't take too long.

Gunter returned to his room and placed his "purchases" in the dresser, except for a set he immediately changed into just to get out of his grubby clothes and into something clean. That felt much better.

He'd been keeping the window open for fresh air, and the dove came and went as it pleased. It was here now, looking at him reproachfully. That was ridiculous; animals didn't have the same emotions as people.

"What?" Gunter asked it anyway. "Are you hungry? I didn't think it was time to feed you and your friends yet." It fluttered to the made bed and walked across it. "You'd better be housetrained, bird."

He couldn't call it "bird," that was silly. But was it a pet? Or just a very bold wild bird?

"What am I supposed to do with you, bonito?" he asked rhetorically.

The bird cocked a beady black eye at him, then suddenly flew to his shoulder. Gunter held his breath. There was a slight weight, and it didn't sit still, it moved, and he could only see it with one eye.

"Is that your name?" he said, very quietly, afraid to disturb it, afraid to even move. "Are you Bonito?" It could have been. The Lambs spoke Spanish.

"Okay." Gunter breathed carefully and slowly. "Let's… go to the infirmary?"

Martin slipped back to his room, now that the week's unloading was done. He would never need the clothing that was delivered – everything he wore was custom-made, except his socks – but of course the rest of the supplies applied to him as much as to everyone else. Besides, it was always a team effort, unloading the truck, and then having mail call.

He read his letter with a fond smile. Most of her questions were answered in the letter he had sent out today, just as some of the questions in his outgoing letter were answered in this one; they often did that, crossing in the mail, guessing at one another's thoughts. And there was a picture inside, of a child scarcely old enough to be called a little girl, though neither was she an infant any more. He studied the photograph for a long minute, memorizing her features, her black curly hair, her laughing eyes so dark they might as well have been black as well.

This was what he was missing by living this life, by doing this work.

This was why he stayed here, where the money he earned was good and his living expenses low, and he could save a good portion of his pay to ensure she would have choices in life. Could attend university, if she chose. Could marry, or not, as she chose.

He hung the photograph on the wall, and carefully slid the older image it had replaced into the envelope with the letter. These both went into the small cedar box he kept on top of his dresser. Then he returned to the task he had interrupted when the truck arrived, carefully checking the jacket currently on his suit form for any wear that needed to be mended, or any seams for which the fit should be adjusted before the week's fighting began.

"Put the catalogue away, Häslein," Krieg said.

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean?" Sasha said suspiciously.

"Only that choosing a gift to send can wait. It seems a pity to waste such an afternoon as this."

"Not that, the 'hash line' thing. You calling me names or something, Pyro? 'Cause let me tell you, if you are, all I can say is don't even start wit' that, I'll make you regret the day you was born, just see if I don't – "

"Peace," Krieg said, hands out in a conciliatory gesture. "'Häslein.' Means hare."

"Hair? What about it?" Sasha ran a hand over his short-cropped hair.

"Hare. Like a rabbit." Krieg could probably see Sasha was about to get mad again, because he went on. "Because you run so swiftly, like one."

"Huh." Well, Sasha guessed that was okay, even if he'd been teased before about being a rabbit because of his teeth. "So what'd you want?"

"Now that the others are finished with the ball game, I thought you might be willing to throw the ball for me."

"What, you wanna practice batting?"

Krieg grinned rakishly. "More like target practice."

"Ya ain't gonna shoot up my ball, are ya?" Sasha thought briefly. "Or burn it?"

"I promise, no," Krieg said, and his grin only grew wider; but it was his flamethrower he brought out anyway.

Sasha had to admit, several minutes later, that this was fun: he would pitch the ball to Krieg, and Krieg would blast it with a puff of air – no fire – from his flamethrower to deflect it. Then Sasha would scramble to catch the ball before it fell, and throw it again from where he stood. They played until they were out of breath from laughing at the unexpected directions the ball would go ("That's why I need the practice!" Krieg shouted when it went the wrong way and Sasha had to dash across the field) and went to clean up before their Sunday dinner, which was supposed to be something special for the team.


	12. Chapter 12: Whatchamacallit

Vlad needed an assistant.

Losing half the team had hurt the Blues in more ways than just combat. Sure, some chores were rotated among the mercs, like cooking or dishwashing. Others were handled independently, like laundry. But some chores were best done by the same person rather than a rotating crew.

Martin was already training the new Medic and handling certain other chores, mostly spying, and Vlad didn't want to unload inventory on the Spy. Martin would probably agree to do it if asked, but it was a waste of the man's talents.

Lonnie had the maintenance and, lately, the garden.

Tom, the previous sniper, had been quartermaster. Most Snipers seemed to do well alone, whether in a tower, out of doors, or in a warehouse, keeping track of inventory. At any rate, Tom had been a good quartermaster.

Finn could be a choice, except he couldn't read or write English and maybe not Russian, and Vlad would be damned before he'd convert the records to anything else. As it was, he had to figure out something else Finn could do. Maybe the garden, since that didn't require literacy. How different could the vegetables be?

Dr. Lamb had handled the garden and the medical necessities, and along with Martin, had been Vlad's good second-in-command, and also kept copies of many of the records and files. The new Medic would have to take over at least some of that, after he was trained. He'd have his hands full.

Sasha was too young and impatient for inventory or several other chores. Then again, maybe if he was assigned to one of the older men as an assistant, he'd settle down and learn something useful.

That left Liam, Krieg, or Samson. Vlad knew that Liam was already a bad choice. Liam hated doing inventory and would slack off at the least chance. In most other respects he was a fine teammate, and he never complained about doing many of the other chores, including cleaning. But the Indo-Irishman found inventory record-keeping one of the worst punishments possible. Vlad had actually used it as a punishment when Liam got too drunk or otherwise caused trouble.

Krieg or Samson, then. He'd try Krieg first, though he knew nothing about the man. If neither the Pyro or Heavy wanted the job, maybe it would just have to rotate anyway.

Vlad finished the paperwork and remembered he'd gotten a letter this week from Carole. He took it from his pocket and slit open the envelope.

Gunter had fed the doves, and "his" dove had eaten with the others, while Gunter sat in the desk chair and watched them.

He'd never had pets. His parents didn't believe in them. Animals shouldn't belong in the house, they were dirty and carried diseases. Yet the doves were fascinating. So tame, letting him watch them so closely. He could see the play of colors in their feathers. Maybe, if he watched them enough, he could tell them apart. It already seemed they had different personalities, but of course they were just birds.

Or were they? Bonito was a bold little dove. He wasn't the biggest, but he acted the biggest. Gunter smiled to see the smaller dove push his bigger brethren aside. Who ever heard of a belligerent dove?

When they'd eaten their fill, the little flock groomed themselves, then they all flew out the clerestory window, even Bonito. Not even a backward glance, Gunter thought.

Only the Medic and Pyro hadn't yet had a Sunday dinner with the team. Vlad didn't require anyone to dress up for dinner, though he was glad Doc had bought some new clothes. He looked more a proper Medic in his light blue shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and navy pants tucked into boots.

Krieg and Sasha entered the mess hall together and in good spirits. That was good to see; Vlad had been so concerned with the Medic that he hadn't given a lot of thought to Krieg, since the latter appeared competent. The rest of the mercs joined them as well.

Finn looked desperately at Samson's dinner of chicken stew, tortillas, rice with vegetables, and beans, with the smells of garlic and chilis redolent in the air. At least the Demoman's breakfasts had been edible. Both meals served by the Heavy were messes of fire. There was no food to be hunted or gathered in the surrounding land. How was he going to eat this week?

Vlad led them in a quiet Sunday prayer, asking for victory in this week's battles, that everyone kept healthy and for an end to the other wars in the world. As he pointed out for the new people, they could just keep quiet during the following moment of silence, or pray, as was their wont.

Gunter kept quiet. He didn't pray often as a general rule, but was polite around others. Truth be told, he was looking forward to the food, because he liked Mexican and Indian food.

The veterans noticed that Vlad was uncharacteristically quiet this meal, but didn't know what might be the cause of it.

"Soldat," Finn said, "Mne nuzhno vyuchit' angliyskiy yazyk." [I need to learn English.]

Vlad had already come to that conclusion, because Finn's teamwork suffered from a near-complete lack of common language with anyone else here. But the only language the Sniper had in common with anyone was some Russian, and not much of that. Vlad's eye fell on Sasha. "Sasha," he called, "switch places so you can sit next to Finn."

"Why?" Sasha did so anyway.

"Because from now on, you're tasked with teaching him English," Vlad said. "And if you slack off on this we'll all know it."

Sasha grumbled. He wasn't a teacher, how was he supposed to do this? "Vy govorite po-russki?" [You speak Russian?] he asked, to confirm.

Finn waggled his hand – _a little_ – and pointed at the fork.

Sasha got the idea. "Fork," he said. "Spoon, knife, plate." Okay, maybe this wouldn't be too hard. Just tell him the names of things.

Dinner went well and quietly. Afterward Vlad discussed the need for some of them (hint hint) to get shopping lists submitted.

"We also need a quartermaster," he said. "I've been doing it since we lost Tom" – he, Samson, and Martin crossed themselves – "but we need someone to handle it. Anyone who's interested, see me after this."

Gunter considered, but said nothing. It sounded tedious but not hard.

"Anything else?"

"I'm changing my equipment," Gunter said without preamble. Raising his hand to ask permission to speak seemed very juvenile in this crowd.

"Are you now."

"Yes. Instead of the saw. I have a pick, a pickax. I'll try using that this week."

Vlad nodded. If it kept the Medic in the fight, fine. "All right, Doc. Give it a try and let us know if that works better for you."

Vlad was already chain-smoking as he showed Finn how to do any washing-up. The Sniper had never seen a dishwashing machine before, but he could appreciate the labor-saving involved. Vlad left him and Sasha to it and went to the roof.

Gunter retired to his room. It was too early for sleep. He could hear Liam and Krieg through the open window, training or something, but having a good time doing it.

Bonito landed on the windowsill. "Bold as brass," Gunter said aloud. The little dove strutted in like he owned the place. Gunter smiled at the bird. He was inspired to get his sketchbook and pencil. Turning to a fresh page, he quickly sketched the dove, then filled in details: Bonito as a Napoleon of the doves, all dressed in little uniforms and saluting him with their right wings.

The act of drawing relaxed him. When it was finished, Gunter was happy with it. "That's you," he said to the bird, holding the drawing up. "And now we have to feed your troops." He held out his hand and Bonito flew to his shoulder. It was a nice feeling.

Finn kept Sasha busy for another hour with language lessons. Objects were easy. Verbs and concepts, not so much. They stopped because Finn needed some silence and isolation. The lanky Sniper left for wherever Snipers go to be alone; Sasha was ready for a break anyway – but wait, where _did_ snipers go? Maybe he should try to find out.

"What is on your mind this evening, _ami_?" The usual beer bottle-ashtray was gone, replaced with the larger bottle Martin had brought out (and Doc had emptied) two nights ago. The spy was already on his second hand-rolled cigarette under the stars, from the look of things.

Vlad shrugged. "Things going well with your girlfriend?" He nodded at Martin's assertion that, yes, things were fine. "Good. Good." He brought his cigarette to ash and dropped it in the bottle. "Carole dear-Johnned me. Can't say as I blame her, I guess. I'm not around much any more. Still." His speech was clipped and abrupt. "You know how it is. Maybe especially 'cause she might be right."

Vlad wasn't going to drink – not on a Sunday night – but he felt free to keep smoking.

"Suppose it's better this way," he sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "I don't suppose your girlfriend has a sister?" he joked.

"Brothers only, it would seem," Martin said sympathetically.

"How's Doc doing?" Vlad asked in a quieter voice. "Think he'll make it?"

Martin took a drag from his cigarette, setting its tip aglow, before he replied. "[I think he will,]" he replied in French. They were unlikely to be overheard here in any case, but Martin was fairly sure they were the only two on their team who spoke the language, just in case someone else had decided to spend part of the evening on the roof. "[He may believe he is still looking for a way out; but if that were true, he would not have bought so many clothes. On the battlefield, he has only to grow accustomed to it. The pick, if it is an implement he finds familiar, may help.]"

Vlad nodded. "[Good,]" he replied in the same language. "[That's one less thing to worry about.]" He exhaled a long stream of smoke. "[The other German is making friends, even if he grumbled about cooking. The boy, maybe he'll learn patience while teaching.]" Sometimes names could still be picked out even from a foreign language. "I'm glad I can count on you, Martin." He meant it, too; he smiled at the spy with genuine brotherly affection.


	13. Chapter 13: There's No Going Back

The alarm went off.

Gunter opened his eyes. The room was familiar now. So was Bonito preening on the end table. Gunter didn't know what they'd do when the weather turned colder, because he wouldn't want to keep his window open constantly, but right now he left it open so the little dove could come and go as he pleased.

The dove looked at him and cooed. That was a strange word for that noise, Gunter thought. It didn't go with the sound at all. More like a hooting. Not that he was an expert on bird calls.

"Guten Morgen," he replied. For all he knew, the dove had said "feed me," but it was… well, it made him feel good to think the dove was actually talking to him. Even if that meant acting as though he were in a cartoon movie.

He could hear the other mercs moving about. It was Monday. Time to fight again.

Gunter rolled on his back and stared at the ceiling. Time to fight again. He took a deep breath, held it, exhaled. He had his pick, and he had a better idea what to be doing on the battlefield. He had teammates looking out for him.

He suddenly remembered the file cabinet full of blank forms. He should look in there tonight. Maybe there was something that could get him out of here. Some paper that would grant him freedom.

But then where? He had to have a plan of some kind. If he left, where would he go?

"Doc! C'mon, man! You up?"

That was Sasha. By all rights, Sasha should be a groggy teenager, malingering, begging for five more minutes. Gunter had had that problem at that age, but Sasha sure didn't. "Yes, I'm up," he said.

Breakfast over and out of the way, dress for battle, collect the equipment. _Not again,_ Gunter thought. It had been easier this morning to pretend the war didn't exist, but no, he still had to fight. He still had to get out there and avoid blood and bullets and –

He took a deep breath. He'd survived so far, hadn't he? Just think of it like a job. Ha, that was funny. Banker's hours for a war. Did they still have to fight on Thanksgiving and Christmas?

Just a job. Get the equipment. The backpack was just a backpack; the pick was a familiar tool.

Looking at the backpack more closely now, he could see where a hook could be attached to the overall frame, and from there he could hang the medigun. Not for long – it was heavy and would unbalance him – but at least he could hang it there. He'd wondered how he was supposed to use both the gun and a weapon without dropping something. Gunter found the hook hanging on the inside wall of the equipment locker and fixed it to the pack.

They were in the ready room, he was charging the medigun. Overhealing, Samson had called it. Overheal the Soldier, Heavy, Demo, Pyro and maybe Scout; they would rush in and take the worst damage. Use that to charge the medigun for an ubercharge. Don't be afraid to uber himself if he thought he was in danger and he could do it.

The pick hung from the dummy cord at his waist. It wasn't the usual way he carried the pick, but he could reach it more quickly.

The alarm sounded. Time to fight.

The fighting itself began to blur together. _Keep moving_ was key. Stand still too long and a Spy or a Sniper might get you. Or anyone. But constant movement was wearying too.

Yet – and this was the strange thing – the blood and gore wasn't bothering him as much. It was still disgusting, especially if it happened right next to him. Gunter still feared a gruesome, painful death. But seeing the blood, it wasn't as bad. And perhaps that was the best he could hope for. If he began to enjoy it, he'd probably turn into Red Medic.

Finn devoured sandwiches as fast as he could get them down when the lunch break came. He was starving, having gotten through breakfast on plain tortillas and coffee. He'd have to start making his own food, or…

"Finn, you don't need to hoard sandwiches, dinner's not that far off," Vlad said.

It was in the afternoon that he made his first kill.

Gunter had no way of knowing whether they were winning or losing most of the time. Yes, there were the capture points. But sometimes the fighting bogged down into a stalemate and it was hard to tell whether any progress was being made.

It was hot, carrying the pack and the medigun, and wearing a coat on top of his clothes, and Gunter crouched in the shade of a BLU building and took a moment to rest. He'd catch up with the others in a moment.

Krieg sprinted past him. How the man managed in that suit – he must be a mass of sweat. Gunter winced at how it must feel in there. But the suit was fireproof, probably to protect against his own weapon as much as against the other Pyro.

Gunter wanted a cold beer, or a pop, or anything cold, really, to wet his throat and cool off. Maybe the dispenser had something. Where had he seen it? He made himself stand and start walking in the direction he thought it might be.

No, this was too close to the Red base, Lonnie wouldn't have put one here. Gunter hoped he wasn't lost. He could hear gunshots somewhere to his right. He'd better get over there. He flexed his shoulders under the heavy pack and got going.

Oh, hell, he was lost, all right. He should know this part, but it looked more red than blue. How had he gotten so turned around? He oriented on the gunfire again. By now someone must have noticed he was missing, and this time it wasn't even because he'd had a breakdown.

Being in hostile territory, Gunter wanted to sprint through and be cautious at the same time – not an easy thing to pull off. He peeked around a corner and saw the Red Heavy and Medic about five feet away with their backs to him. Heavy was messing with his gun, while Red Medic built the charge.

They didn't know he was there. But if he waited, someone else might find him, and if he tried to run past, they'd see him for sure.

Gunter eased back behind the corner and hung the gun on the hook. It was heavier than he'd expected, but he wouldn't leave it there long.

The two Reds were talking quietly when Gunter looked back, pick in hand. His mouth was dry, heart hammering, fatigue forgotten as he hesitated, not wanting to do this but unwilling to wait patiently to be killed, either.

The Reds began to move toward the battlefield. Without thinking, Gunter leapt out from behind the building, swinging the pick. It was a wild swing, hampered by the gun, but the blade still connected with Red Medic's side, and Gunter felt something give under the impact. Ribs? He pulled the pick back, like he was moving rocks, and that spun the Red Medic to face him.

Red Medic looked shocked to see Gunter. "Sie?!" He hissed. ["You?!"] He placed his left hand over his right side, where blood was now visible on the beige coat. "Haben Sie endlich ihre Männlichkeit zurückerlangt?" ["Did you finally find your balls?"] he said, grabbing his own saw, which Gunter now saw had an enormous syringe on it.

The Heavy had kept running, unaware of what happened behind him.

Gunter swung the pick up, overhand, the familiar swing, then down, fast, and again, each time striking Red Medic with the full force of desperation and fear and adrenaline. The other Medic tried to back up, but Gunter came on, focused only on one thing, _kill or be killed_.

Red Medic fell to the ground, and Gunter kept striking. He didn't think of anything else, just keep swinging, and the hot blood sprayed upward on him, before the body shimmered and vanished to respawn.

Gunter stepped back on shaky legs. He'd… he'd killed someone. Killed that bastard. He ran his gloved hand across his face to wipe his mouth, but only succeeded in smearing the blood around more. He licked his lips without thinking; the blood tasted salty. But it wasn't his blood.

The Heavy. Gunter looked around. The Heavy was nowhere in sight. Gunter was still alive, and he'd killed someone. He dropped the bloodstained pick to hang from the cord. His hands shook as he got the medigun from his shoulder. Find the team. Find his team. He was still in Red territory. Find his team and stay close to others. His stomach was doing somersaults. Keep it down.


	14. The Known, The Unknown, The Underknown

Martin checked on their new Medic after the battle was called for the day. The new men were settling in well enough that things were starting to feel back to normal, though the thought of their missing teammates still provoked an ache, like poking at a sore that had only just begun healing. "You are well?" he asked. It was enough to say.

Gunter didn't know how to respond. "I guess so?" he finally said. He'd killed a man today. Not permanently, and Red Medic had steered clear of him the rest of the day, which was good, though the Red Spy (or someone) had gotten the drop on him more than once. And with the disappearance of the body, Gunter didn't have it to keep looking at it. It seemed like a bad dream now, but he knew it was reality. He'd killed a man.

None of the others seemed to have this worry; they'd been doing it for at least three days, the new men, up to four years for the veterans, maybe longer. But the Medic… Medics weren't supposed to kill. It was known, for Vietnam, try to get into medical in order to escape combat.

But the pick had worked. And he'd killed Red Medic. And though Gunter was still shaky and trying not to think about it, he wasn't vomiting. That was definitely an improvement.

He wondered if anyone had seen what he'd done.

He and Martin were walking down the hall that led to the infirmary. The rest of the men had veered off to drop off equipment and get showers.

"I killed the Medic," Gunter said quietly, not sure he wanted anyone to hear yet.

"Good," Martin said matter-of-factly. He'd witnessed the scene, deep in Red territory where a medic should not venture alone (but where a spy was right at home); but he wasn't about to say so. "Otherwise he would have killed you. And I know whom I would prefer to see standing, at the end of the day."

They made the last turn into the infirmary. "But the first time… It is a thing hard to do. No matter where or when, or for what reason."

Martin regarded Gunter for a long moment, before removing the balaclava he wore through each day's battles. His hair curled awkwardly in all directions, but the face beneath was that of the person Gunter had learned to rely on outside battle, this past week, and he knew that would matter. "And so it is that I ask: are you well?"

Gunter removed the pack, medigun and pick; he hadn't even bothered with the syringe gun today. Everything needed to be cleaned, and his coat was spattered with blood. The boots and gloves washed up easily; small favors indeed.

"I didn't get sick," he said, thinking about it. "It happened so fast. I was afraid if I didn't do it, I'd get killed myself. It wasn't because I wanted to kill him, it was…"

He had begun cleaning his equipment. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head. "If it had been someone else, it might have been harder. Their Engineer seems too nice for that team. I'm not sure I could have done it to him. But the Medic, because I know what he's like… it didn't feel so wrong." He stopped, closing his eyes and setting his jaw. "But it _is_ wrong. And I don't want to be crazy like him. I don't want to attack people." He looked at Martin. "I guess I can do it, if I have to. And to answer your question: I guess I am. I didn't get sick, and I didn't have a breakdown. That's better than last week." Gunter took a deep breath. "You're to make sure I can do the job, aren't you?" He smiled weakly.

"I already know that you can do the job," Martin said, steadily. "It is for your own sake that I am concerned. It is that…"

The Frenchman paused, searching for words. "It is hard to find the words in English," he said, though it would have been truer to say that it was hard to find the words at all. "Let me say instead: we have lost enough people, on this team. Too many, all at once. To lose another would take the heart out of those who were left. And at the same time, it is not what the team needs that is paramount. It is that – I have seen what happens, when a man sacrifices a piece of himself to keep going, because a thing that has happened is too much. I do not wish such a thing to happen to you."

It was hardest to find words, Martin thought, because one cannot say to a man that he reminds one of one's sister – especially when the man in question is older than oneself, even by a scant few years – but it was true.

So he regarded Gunter for a few more seconds, then smiled before the moment could become too serious. "Besides, if I hurry, I can shower and be clean before you are finished with your equipment. Pour hydrogen peroxide on your coat, wherever there is blood, and it will not stain. In the brown bottles, there." He nodded at a cabinet, and when Gunter's eyes flicked automatically in that direction, Martin took the opportunity to disappear into the adjacent bathroom.

Well, Gunter thought, he _had_ given Martin permission to use it.

He did as instructed to clean his coat, as well as the gun and pick. It made sense that Martin would know things like how to get blood out of clothing, if he'd been here this long.

On the train ride to Teufort, Gunter remembered, he'd been so eager, so grateful for a job to do what he loved. It had been validation that all his hard work had paid off. It was proof that his chosen career was real and worthwhile.

Instead, he was embroiled in a private war, killing other men, being killed. But he was almost a doctor here. That was all anyone wanted of him, to be a doctor. Maybe this was God's way of telling him that archaeology was the wrong choice._You're meant to be a doctor, now buckle down and be happy._ But wasn't that what Martin meant by sacrificing a piece of himself? If he gave up on his degree, on what he loved… he still wouldn't be happy.

If he could get through his two-year contract, then he'd be free to go. He'd only done three days of actual fighting; two years seemed like forever. Could he deal with the blood and violence that long without going crazy?

_Let's assume the worst,_ he thought. _Assume I have to stay the full two years. If I keep my expenses low, I'll have a sizable nest egg when I leave. Then I can look for proper work in comfort._

He'd still have to get through battles, but Gunter felt better for having some kind of a plan. If he couldn't get out more quickly, there was at least an end in sight, and he knew what he needed to do to reach that end.

In the short term, he would do the best he could to stay sane and not get killed. He had to put in at least enough time to pay for his purchases. Yes, his leaving would put a hole in the team, but he was never supposed to be here in the first place.

Gunter showered after Martin, went to dinner with the team, and ate heartily. Most of them did so; Finn seemed all right on tortillas and refried beans, having eaten his hoarded sandwiches. Vlad was happy they'd done better today. Sasha was still working on Finn's English, but the Sniper seemed willing to learn, and was coming along.

After dinner there was talk of a poker game. Sasha wanted to join, so Liam said they could play for gingersnaps because of the children in the room. Sasha immediately got riled up. Gunter went to feed the doves.

Bonito was there, of course, and Gunter liked the attentions from "his" dove. He didn't actually think of the bird as a pet, not as free and uncaged as Bonito was. Gunter spent some time with the birds before remembering about the forms in the file cabinet.

Leafing through them was as dull as he'd expected. The most entertaining item was the discovery of Form Request Forms. Everything else seemed to be medically based (permission to return to work, explanation of injury, and so on). Still, he tried to put the best face on it: he had fewer forms to get through next time. He went looking for Martin.

The poker game was quite rowdy now from the sounds of it. Martin had commented that only games worth money were playing, and Sasha had risen to the bait. He proved a more competent player than they had expected. Liam was serious and intense as always and tended not to bluff. Samson used his physical bulk as a potential threat to the new people.

Vlad's tastes ran more to pinochle, so he stayed out of the game. He found the Doc on his own in the hall and offered him a smoke. "Finding your feet?" he asked.

"Pardon? – Oh." Gunter accepted a light as well as the cigarette. "I suppose so. It takes some time to get used to it."

"It does," Vlad agreed. "But you're coming along. Why don't you join the game?"

"No, I don't think so." Gunter didn't want to admit he didn't know how to play poker.

It sounded like the game was going to break up momentarily, with both Liam and Sasha accusing someone (each other?) of being a lying two-faced bastard and/or a dirty cheater.

"If I wanted to leave the base," Gunter said, "would that be possible?" He was thinking of Martin's suggestion to look for dig sites in the nearby area.

Vlad looked at him curiously. "You'd have to let me, or someone, know," he said. "In case there were any problems, so we'd know to come look for you."

Martin thought this was a good time to excuse himself from the card table. He was down a few dollars; the stakes were so low they would bankrupt no one, and he was more interested in observing the dynamic of the new group than in winning.

Krieg, too, was interested in observing the men he'd just begun working with, though he was also playing to win. "Leaving so soon?" he asked.

"Before things come to blows," Martin replied with an enigmatic smile, gesturing at Liam and Sasha.

Krieg nodded. He didn't know what to make of the Spy, so far; he'd spent the least time with him of anyone here, since the man hadn't been part of the crew training him, Finn, and Sasha, and he disappeared frequently – literally disappeared on the battlefield, of course, but frequently outside battle hours, as well. Certainly he never joined the rest of the team in the locker room after a battle, never showered when all the rest of them did.

"See you later, then," Krieg nodded, and continued to calmly watch the argument brewing.

When Sasha leapt to his feet, certain the damn cow-kisser was cheating, he wasn't afraid. He'd been in tough fights against worse odds. But Lonnie appeared at Liam's side with a heavy wrench in his hand. Sasha didn't know why Lonnie wanted to get involved in this, but the wrench gave him pause. Brawls were one thing, weapons could make fights deadly. (In the heat of the moment, he'd forgotten about Respawn.)

Finn had finished dishwashing duty and now came to see what the noise was about. It looked like a fight, and Finn was leery of joining a fight without knowing what was behind it. Besides, the Russian boy had probably started it.

Samson held up a hand for silence. "Perhaps this is a good time – " he began.

"This fucker cheats!" Sasha said.

"Pogue mahone, _Comrade!_" Liam shot back.

Samson reached out and slammed their heads together. Sasha saw stars and sat down hard, missing the chair and landing on the floor. Liam stumbled back and was saved by Lonnie catching him.

"The game is over," Samson said, standing and pocketing all the money left on the table.

"No way! Tha's not fair," Sasha said, trying to get to his feet. His head hurt, bad, real bad.

"Then next time do not try to cheat your teammates." As Sasha squawked a protest, Samson turned to Liam, cradling his own head. "And you should not try to give him his own medicine."

Liam stared back sullenly. Samson was right, but nobody liked being called out. Finally he gave a single nod, then winced as the motion hurt his head more.

"Go ask David to see to your heads," Samson said. Then he looked at the door and saw the new Medic standing next to Vlad. The man was too young, too unsure, and definitely not David. "I mean, go to – " The Heavy realized he wasn't actually sure of the Medic's name. Everyone just called him Doc, if they called him anything. Even Samson. "See the Medic," he finished.

Gunter had interpreted Samson's pause and choice of words as a sign that he wasn't really part of this team yet. Still, he used the quick-fix medigun in the infirmary to remove the concussions from his teammates, who had the courtesy to just ignore each other like sullen teens. Lonnie had helped Liam get here, and made sure the Demo was better, treating Gunter with suspicion. Gunter knew Lonnie didn't consider him a real doctor – hell, he wasn't – and probably the Engineer thought Gunter would drill holes in Liam's head if he wasn't watched carefully.

After they left, Gunter could hear Vlad yelling at Liam and Sasha to get along and not be stupid at cards any more. Samson had remained behind.

"I'm sorry," the big man said.

Gunter frowned. "For what?" He wished everyone would just leave. He felt uncomfortable enough already.

"For not knowing your name. It is improper of me, and I should have learned it before now."

Oh. That explained why he was 'the Medic.' "It's not an easy name," he said. "Gunter Schlachterhauser." He said it carefully. He was used to manglings.

"Goonter, shlakter-houser." Samson at least got close. Some people couldn't manage it on the first try. "Very well, Doctor. I will try not to make mistakes with your name."

"It's nothing," Gunter said, though he felt better now, truth be told. Samson just hadn't known what his name was. It was such a small thing. Did anyone else still not know it? "Your brother was well liked, I can tell."

"Yes. Yes, he was."

They stood in silence for a few moments before Samson said, "Good night," and left.

"Good night," Gunter answered. He needed another smoke. He'd extinguished his cigarette before coming in here, because you weren't supposed to smoke in the infirmary, he remembered that much. He'd mostly been given individual smokes from Martin or Vlad, and he didn't have a pack of his own. Another thing he'd have to get from the stores. He sighed and slumped against the operating table. "Two years," he muttered. He needed a smoke… that's right, he was going to find Martin and see who was in charge of the stores now, and if he could buy some cigarettes.

After two-thirds of the team hustled down to the infirmary, Martin was left alone in the common room with Krieg and Finn. The Sniper's expression was politely guarded; the Pyro looked, if anything, amused.

"Let that be a lesson to you, as well as the rest of them," Martin said. His tone was idle, but a serious intent lurked underneath. "If you need to hassle someone, aim it at the Reds. Start something with one of your teammates, and the rest of us will finish it. We work together, on Blue."

He knew Finn couldn't have understood that; Vlad would have to make sure he got the message. Krieg regarded the spy with a smirk Martin didn't like the look of, but it might mean nothing; and the man did nod to show his understanding. He would discuss that with Vlad later, as well, though the Soldier would be busy enough keeping Liam and Sasha out of trouble for a while. Martin nodded in reply, as if they had an agreement.

At least Samson was back in action now, and not just on the battlefield. Making sure the team operated as a unit required cooperation, even from those who preferred to act independently. Replacing half the team like this – had that ever happened before? Best not to inquire too closely. Neither of the companies approved of anyone looking too closely at the history of this little war. But it meant extra work ahead for the veterans, molding this new group into a real team.

And Liam and Lonnie were almost done with their first terms of duty – experienced enough to know their jobs, and to help train the others, but neither of them had the right personality to help the others settle in and learn to work together.

Martin leaned back, put his feet up, and lit another cigarette. Krieg had gestured Finn over to the table, and was attempting through gestures to find a game they both knew the rules of, so at least these two wouldn't likely be making more trouble tonight. All the same, even though Martin would normally have been off taking care of one task or another by this point, he felt he should remain visible to everyone this evening. He didn't cut the same figure of physical authority as Samson or Vlad, but there was a reason Vlad had asked him to serve as second-in-command, and he was staying put as a symbol of order for anyone who passed through.

Finn understood there was a warning coming from the velho. Probably about fighting. Finn avoided direct fights; if an enemy was close enough to hit you with his fists, he was much too close already.

The Pyro was different. Like he'd enjoyed the fight, perhaps.

Finn was tired of dealing with his teammates for now. There were simply too many of them and they made too much noise. He left to find some solitude.

He went to the roof, the coolest place in this furnace, and looked out over the alien emptiness. He missed the trees. Even in the cities, there had been some trees.


	15. Chapter 15: Gunter 101

Gunter found Martin still in the rec room. "They're healed – well, they were healed before Vlad began working on them," he said. He hesitated; he still felt unsure about being on a first-name basis with the Soldier. "I'd like to buy some cigarettes, but Vlad is busy. Do we have a quartermaster yet?"

"No one has stepped up, or if they have Vlad hasn't told me. And it won't be you, _Docteur_, Medics have enough extra to do outside battle, treating injuries or illnesses and keeping their own records." Martin eyed the Pyro, who was trying to be surreptitious about watching them over his game of solitaire. "You may be reluctant to volunteer for such a duty, _Incendiaire_, but if you can count and fill in forms, unless you can tend a garden, you might talk to our soldier about the quartermaster position. Before you are assigned to another task, such as emptying the septic tank."

He led Gunter toward the storeroom. "But until we do have an official quartermaster, you can see me as well as Vlad. I know many things, including where to look in our stores and how to fill out the necessary forms."

"It's a lot of paperwork for a private war," Gunter commented as he followed Martin to the storeroom. "And in the infirmary." He hadn't guessed there would be any injuries outside of battle, but Samson had proved that rule. Anything that didn't kill you would have to be healed in the infirmary. If you got a cold or valley fever or the like, you probably just had to suffer through it. He'd have to learn some real first aid from the books in the infirmary.

The cigarettes available in the storeroom were name-brands, but Gunter guessed that some, like Martin, probably spent extra money for fancier stuff. One of the brands he recognized as what Vlad smoked, so he chose that. He hadn't smoked this much in years, but it did seem to settle his nerves.

"I saw a chalkboard in one room," he said, after signing off on the form, agreeing that the cost could be deducted from his paycheck. He hoped there would be something left by the time he got paid. The chalkboard had had a wooden frame mounted on wheels that Gunter was willing to bet would be balky and stubborn if you tried to move the board anywhere. "I'd like to borrow it." At Martin's raised eyebrow, Gunter explained, "The team doesn't know who I am. Samson didn't even know my name. I – it may sound unnecessary, but I want to introduce myself. Explain who I am, what I do, and why I'm not what they expected. The chalkboard would help."

Gunter wasn't sure the team would even be interested, especially tonight. But he wanted to do this.

Martin nodded, bemused. "That makes sense. Where would you want it, and when? Do you need help moving it?"

"It might be easier to leave the board and move everyone in there," Gunter said. "We could probably still do it tonight, assuming Vlad doesn't run Liam and Sasha until they drop." Gunter hesitated before asking his next question. "Do you have many disputes like that?"

"Hm," the spy said, amused. "Well, Liam and Sasha will likely both be grateful to you if we interrupt whatever exercises Vlad has them running through. Maybe even grateful enough to pay attention. Which room was it in, this chalkboard? The one nearest Respawn?" Martin knew there were several such chalkboards around the base.

He paused, thoughtfully, before answering the next question. "Such disputes… Their frequency and nature depend greatly on the personalities involved, and how well they have learned to work together. It is unusual to have so many new people at once; most often, we have only one, occasionally two new people to integrate into the team, so it is only a matter of getting that one to adjust, and of everyone adjusting to that one new person.

"Sasha's young and overconfident, yet feels he needs to prove himself. Scouts often are like that. Scouting is a young man's job.

"Liam is intense, and can be hotheaded. Demos are usually either very calm, thoughtful and patient, taking great care with their dangerous materials, or else they're like Liam, attracted to explosives because that is a way to express feelings they otherwise cannot. Sometimes, they're both."

Martin gave, again, that classic Gallic shrug. "It is hardly surprising that they would clash. No doubt Samson and Vlad's actions will have gone some way toward preventing any future incidents. Once we get them to work together, once they learn to rely on one another, it will likely cease to be a problem. Lonnie and Liam often clashed as well, when they both were new; but you saw how Lonnie came to back up his friend without question, tonight."

"I didn't think Lonnie was anyone's friend," Gunter said. "This is the room." It was the one nearest the Respawn. There were even some old wooden chairs in here. He hunted around and found some chalk stubs. "This will work. Let's interrupt Vlad."

Vlad was ready to give Liam and Sasha a break under the excuse that the Medic wanted to talk to the team as a whole. He just hoped it wasn't the Medic announcing he was quitting effective immediately.

Liam had put up with his punishment rather stoically, going through the obstacle course without complaint and just doing it to get it over with. Maybe he was reciting mantras while he did it, Vlad didn't know, just that Liam got a faraway look in his eyes in these kinds of punishments.

Sasha, on the other hand, had only shut up when he ran short of breath and his throat got dry. Even so, he tried to show he was tough and Billy Badass. Vlad could tell the boy was tired, though. Stopping now, when Martin had brought the message from Doc, would keep them both from being overtired the next day.

Everyone moseyed into the room, where Doc had a chalkboard set up and was writing on it. Finn was going to be lost, Vlad thought, but one thing at a time. Spoken language first. At least they'd have something to do during winter or downtime to keep the Sniper busy.

"Thank you all for coming," Doc said, and Vlad realized Doc had some experience with speaking before an audience. He tried to remember what Doc had said he did before he came here.

"I know some of you don't consider me a 'real' doctor," Doc said. Vlad knew of at least one who felt that way. "I am indeed a doctor, just not a medical doctor. My name is Dr. Gunter Schlachterhauser." He finished writing it out across the board. Lord, what a mouthful. "I know you've been calling me Doc, and that's fine, it's much easier to say on the battlefield." He gave a small smile, but nobody laughed. On the other hand, they were all paying attention to him.

"I received my doctorate last month from the University of Chicago. I am an archaeologist." He wrote archaeologist on the chalkboard. "For those of you not familiar with this, it means I study human activity of the past, primarily through their material culture, artifacts such as pots, tools, weapons, anything from that time period."

He began drawing, left-handed, one of those Indian pots, like the ones Vlad had seen in the tourist traps. "Specifically, my field of study is of the Indian cultures of the southwestern United States."

Vlad was interested despite himself. Some of the others were too. Lonnie was peering at the drawing. Finn was drinking a cold beer and nobody was translating for him, so who knew what he was getting out of this.

Samson understood now: this was why the doctor had spoken Spanish and understood some of his culture. "But you only read this in books? Or you were there?"

"I was on digs in the Southwest area, specifically Chaco Canyon in Arizona, and most of my work was in former Anasazi territories," Gunter answered. "I worked with the Indians in those areas for help placing some of the artifacts in context. Sometimes we researchers aren't sure what a specific image or item might be, but the local people have kept oral histories that help me get a better idea what I'm looking at."

Fascinating, Vlad thought, in a dry sort of way. Not his field, but he guessed someone thought this was important to be done.

"And people pay you to do this?" Liam asked.

Gunter nodded. "Usually it's a corporation, university, or state or local government that wants the site excavated. Or applications can be sent for grant money – usually to those same entities – to sponsor a dig. Digs can take several seasons, so it's not something you can do freelance. There's the logistics of the dig, feeding everyone, cataloging and storing what you find; it's a major operation."

He took a deep breath and began writing _Builders League United_, right-handed. (Had Gunter drawn the pot right-handed also, and he was imagining the Doc switched hands, Vlad wondered.) "After I received my doctorate, I was supposed to go to work at a site in the Mogollon digs, but they lost their grant money and that meant no pay and no dig. I needed work." He looked at the company name as if daring it to give up some secrets. "Builders League wanted to hire a doctor. I needed a job and I needed money. In the interview, it sounded like they wanted an archaeologist familiar with the Southwestern area, who'd studied the warfare and violence during the late Anasazi period. So here I am."

Doc now faced the team full on. "So, no, I'm not a medical doctor. I can't sew up stitches or perform surgery. But I _am_ a real doctor. Just not the one you expected, not the one Miss Pauling expected, and I was just as surprised as you to find myself here." He paused. "Are there any questions?"

"You're young," Samson said.

Doc raised a hand in acknowledgment. "Yes. I am. I worked year-round to get that degree and have achieved it much faster than most of my peers."

Liam leaned way back in his chair, smoking, a bemused expression on his face. Lonnie sat next to him, frowning at the chalkboard.

Martin stirred. "Hardly the youngest here, at that. And I hardly think any of us can argue that youth – or age," he added, with a nod toward Lonnie, "is an impediment to the work we do." He'd guessed right, then, at how hard this man must have worked to finish so much education by this age; anyone with that kind of intelligence and work ethic could succeed here, once he set his mind to it.

"But I understand Samson's concern," Gunter said. "A doctorate degree can take years to achieve. I worked nonstop to earn it, working through summers and getting double credit where I could. I'm sure David put in years of study and practice to earn his MD."

"Egghead," Lonnie barely said through unmoving lips, just enough that it was said, but he was certain nobody had heard. Certainly not Liam. Liam couldn't hear whispers, much less what Lonnie had just breathed.

"Sind deine Eltern vor dem Krieg ausgewandert?" Krieg asked casually. [Your parents emigrated before the war?] He'd been present as Schlachterhauser and Miss Pauling made the awful discovery that they'd both been misled, after all; but this was a question he'd been curious about.

"Ja, in den 30er Jahren. Von Magdeburg in Mitteldeutschland, sind sie nach Bismarck in North Dakota gezogen. Woher stammst du?" [Yes, in the 1930's. From Magdeburg in central Germany, they moved to Bismarck, North Dakota. Where do you hail from?]

"Bayern. Nördlich von München. Wir verließen Deutschland in den späten 40er Jahren." [Bavaria. North of Munich. We left in the late 1940s.]

"All I gotta say, Doc," Sasha called out, "is it's a good thing you ain't expectin' any of us t'pronounce that mouthful of marbles you call a name." The Scout nodded at the long name written across the chalkboard. "I mean, my whole Russian name ain't half that long. That, and I think you've got one hell of a nerve saying you can't do surgery when I know you can, 'cause here I am, my ticker still going strong an' all, and I'd rather have you than that Red Doctor Geezer any day, I don't care how many letters he's got after his name."

Gunter didn't know how to answer Sasha's statement. He hadn't thought about it like that. He hadn't thought about the uber surgery much at all, to be honest, because it had been a direct reminder why he didn't want to become a surgeon.

Vlad stood. "Sasha, you make an excellent point. Doc's too modest, which I'll admit is better than a loudmouth braggart." He looked knowingly at Sasha and Liam, both of whom grinned without malice, their earlier squabble forgotten.

Vlad walked to stand next to Gunter. "Our Medic's hard-working. Knows what he wants and doesn't stop 'til he gets it. Smart, too. Got this big college degree ahead of everyone else and then picked up uber-surgery on the fly." He clapped a hand on Gunter's shoulder. "He's about the best new Medic I think they could've sent us. Thanks for doing this, Doc," he added, meaning the presentation. "It was a good idea."

Several of the team were nodding in agreement. Gunter hadn't anticipated any of this. The point of his chasing the degree like a badger was the inevitable fear of his parents discovering what he was really doing and cutting off his funding, plus he often preferred working on digs and studies to being around people. And as soon as he had the sheepskin, he could write his own ticket, find work anywhere else, and be free.

But put the way Vlad had, Gunter came off as modest about several big achievements and about his own abilities. It was enlightening. He sounded not like a clerical error, but as a real asset to the team. Maybe the recruiter had seen it the same way, and Gunter wasn't here because of deception. Not completely, anyway.

"We've just got to get you that killer instinct," Vlad went on. "And you're closing in on that. But your name still sounds like someone clearing a throat full of ball bearings, Doc."

Gunter actually grinned back. He was accepted. It hadn't been his intent tonight – he'd just wanted to clarify who he was and how he'd ended up here – but he'd had a bigger success, that of becoming part of the team. He felt genuinely good about his situation for the first time.

He clung to that good feeling for the rest of the night. He felt too keyed up to sleep, so he stayed up drawing. Bonito watched briefly before settling to sleep in his usual place.

Gunter drew studies of his teammates. Liam looking cocky and smoking. Sasha and Finn talking, working on English. Lonnie was easy, as bad-tempered as he was. Gunter had to resist making the man into a caricature. Samson was drawn from the waist up in everyday Indian dress as Gunter had seen it during his digs.

He would've liked to finish the whole team, but by now he was sleepy, and tomorrow would be another battle. He actually wasn't afraid of it right now.

Vlad felt better about the new Medic for the first time since the man had shown up. He'd invited Martin to his room for congratulations and a half-shot glass of _śliwowica_, powerful sipping plum brandy. "Good to see he's coming around," Vlad said, handing Martin a half-glass (the stuff was strong and Vlad knew Martin liked to keep his head). "Maybe now he won't freeze in battle."

Lonnie thought the whole show just proved how stuck-up the new medic was, but he also knew enough to keep quiet about it. Liam hadn't heard him at the meeting, but afterward, said to the Engineer, "Think you'll have to stop yer hatin' o' the doctor now."

Lonnie could see his point, but he didn't have to say so. He just grunted and threw his back into the effort of budging a rusted bolt with his largest wrench. Probably the egghead had never done this kind of work, _real_ work, a day in his life.

But at least in public, he'd let the egghead alone.

The next day, Tuesday, the battle did go better. Gunter sucked on peppermints and stayed out of direct combat wherever he could. He still carried his pick instead of the saw, and left off the syringe gun completely. He still died, sometimes painfully, and he avoided that whenever possible.

But he didn't feel as afraid. Death and injury should be avoided, certainly. And the Reds were vicious killers, all of them. Yet Gunter found himself better able to shrug it off and keep going.

It helped that Reds were no longer specifically targeting him. Maybe someone had seen Gunter beating Red Medic to death with his archaeologist's pickax and word had spread. Whatever the reason, that helped too, not being singled out.

By lunchtime, he was thinking a hat might be in order. August in the southwest was plenty hot. A hat would help a lot.

By evening, Gunter realized he'd gotten through a whole day without too much mental trauma. He still didn't like the pain and never would, but he hadn't broken down. Gotten close once, but he'd recovered.

He actually felt good about himself. His team treated him like an equal, not an outsider. Maybe… it wouldn't be so bad here after all.

That night Gunter stayed in the rec room instead of retreating to his quarters or the infirmary. He still felt nervous about participating in activities, but he could sit on the couch and smoke and listen to the others. When Martin got up to leave the room, Gunter followed.

"Martin?"

"Yes?" The Spy turned to face him, expression cool and bored.

Gunter held out his hand to shake. "Thanks for looking after me. I don't think I could have gotten through it by myself."

"One week," Martin said, expressionless.

"What?" Gunter said, confused.

"Today is one week since you arrived here. You are more adaptable than you think," the Spy explained. The corners of his mouth twitched. "All the same… _Aujourd'hui à moi, demain à toi_. When you see someone in need of help, I hope you will help them in turn." Martin's hand was soft, but his handshake was strong, like the man himself.

One week down, Gunter thought. One hundred and three to go.


	16. Meet the Blues

Meet the Blues

This is a guide to the BLU team of Forever War. All the "Blues" are original characters; the "Reds" are the canon Team Fortress 2 mercs. They're not clones! :)

There is artwork for this team, here, by MadJesters1 on DeviantArt:

albums/v186/laridian/ForeverWar/60788_

This should help identify who's who on the team!

SPY - Martin, who's not smiling despite having a good hair day. French, professional, capable. Very loyal to his team, also very secretive as a good Spy should be. Been with the team 4 years.

HEAVY - Samson, whose brother was the previous Medic. Samson hails from northern Mexico and is fighting in the Gravel Wars to send money back home. Came to the team shortly after Martin.

THE DOVE - Bonito, an Inca dove that's adopted the new Medic.

SNIPER - Finn, who's illiterate, comes from a remote and rural part of Finland, and doesn't speak English when he arrives. Not very happy with being stationed in the Southwestern desert. Carries an ax as his melee weapon. New teammate.

Middle row:  
>SOLDIER - Vlad Janos. Lithuanian-American, given the choice between take the fight to the Soviets or repeatedly not die in the Gravel Wars, he chose BLU. Team leader. Been with the team since just before Martin.<p>

MEDIC - Günter Schlachterhauser, aka Doc because half the team can't pronounce his name. From Bismarck, ND, he's an archaeologist who was tricked into signing up for perpetual fighting in an isolated base in the middle of nowhere. Still, he's getting by. New teammate, obviously.  
>The previous Medic (Samson's brother) semi-tamed some wild doves in the area, and one has sort of adopted Gunter, who named it Bonito.<p>

ENGINEER - Lonnie is the oldest of the team (somewhere in his 50s), bad-tempered, misanthropic, and carries grudges. Still, he keeps the equipment running. Came into the team the same time as Liam, who's possibly Lonnie's only friend. Been with the team 18 months.

Front row:  
>PYRO - Krieg is good-looking, charming, but somehow just a little off. Not crazy, just... different. Really enjoys his work. New teammate.<p>

DEMOMAN - Liam's parents are from Punjab but he was born and raised in Ireland. His parents (devout Buddhists) are deeply bothered by their son's lack of impulse control, job that involves killing people, and arrest record, but they love him anyway and hope he'll come around. Liam himself _also_ enjoys his work, and life, and gets very intense about anything he does. He wanted the picture of his team to send home to his parents. Been with the team 18 months, same as Lonnie.

SCOUT - Sasha suffers the twin problem of a perfectly fine Russian diminutive that most Americans think is a girl's name, and the fact that "Sasha" is also the name of the Red Heavy's minigun. He comes from a Russian Mafia family that sent him here to sow his wild oats and get some experience before joining the family business. New teammate.


End file.
